Wmmm 


Jesse   lyyticn  Wiliiams 

The   Day-Dreamer 


Books  by  Jesse   Lynch  Williams 

Published  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

New  York  Sketches.  Illustrated.  Net,  |2.oo 

The   Adventures   of   a   Freshman.     Illus- 
trated     $1.25 

The  Stolen  Story,  and  Other  Newspaper 
Stories.    Illustrated $1.25 

Princeton  Stories $1.00 


The  Day-Dreamer 

Being  the  Full  Narrative  of 
''The  Stolen  Story'' 


By 

Jesse  Lynch  Williams 


Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
New  York     ::     ::      1906 


Copyright,    1906,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Publisbedj  March,   igo6 


IV7Z- 

cioujb 


To 

My  Brother 

Davlb  IRibble  Mllliama 


ivi75<)406 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2008  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/daydreamerbeingfOOwillricli 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

PAGE 

In  the  Berkshires  .  •  •         •         •  ^ 

PART   II 
In  Park  Row ^^^ 

PART   III 
At  the  Opera      .  .  •  •  •  .10 

PART   IV 
Park  Row  Again ^"3 


This  is  a  novelization  of  a  play  called  "  The  Stolen 
Story  "  — the  title  and  one  incident  of  which  were  taken 
from  a  short  tale  published  nearly  a  decade  ago. 

In  magazine  form  '*  The  Day-Dreamer^^  was  called 
"  News  and  the  Man."" 


The  Day-Dreamer 

PART    I 

IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 
I 

THE  beautiful  Miss  Cunningham  seemed 
to   be  causing  a  commotion  in  Park 
Row  this  afternoon. 

To  be  sure,  she  was  far  away  at  Fernleigh 
in  the  Berkshires,  graciously  making  tea  on 
the  terrace  for  her  father's  guests  and  quite 
unconscious  of  brewing  trouble  anywhere. 
Yet,  down  in  a  dingy  newspaper  office 
many  miles  from  her,  with  the  roar  of  the 
teeming  streets  coming  up  through  the 
dusty  windows,  a  tall,  reserved  young  man 
was    endeavoring    to    put    down    a    mutiny 

[i] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


of  which  the  girl  up  there  was  the  innocent 
cause.  It  was  a  sort  of  disturbance  no 
one  —  she  least  of  all  —  would  expect  to 
see  the  cynical  Billy  Woods  concerned  with. 
And  indeed  no  one  saw  it,  since  the  com- 
motion was  confined  entirely  to  his  own 
breast. 

"Something  queer  going  on  at  Fernleigh. 
Take  the  first  train  up  there  and  see  what 
you  can  make  out  of  it."  That  had  been 
the  command,  in  the  usual  incisive  tones  of 
the  taciturn  city  editor. 

But  instead  of  the  usual  responsive  glow 
of  the  dark,  listening  eyes  deep-set  under 
straight  brows,  the  grave  young  man  had 
blinked  as  from  a  sudden  blow. 

Now,  in  giving  out  assignments  the  city 
editor  had  learned  to  watch  these  rather 
remarkable  eyes,  and  when  the  unconscious 
signal  was  not  flashed  back  he  knew  that 
this  eccentric  member  of  his  staff —  so  brill- 
iant when  interested,  so  worthless  when 
[2] 


IN   THE   BERKSHIRES 


not  —  had  failed  to  "see  his  story  in  it."  In 
such  cases  the  editor  was  likely  to  try  him 
on  something  else.  But  in  the  present  in- 
stance it  was  so  obviously  the  story  of  the 
day,  and  Woods  was  so  obviously  the  man 
for  it,  that  this  unaccountable  whim  seemed 
as  perplexing  as  it  was  annoying. 

The  editor  began  citing  reasons  for  believ- 
ing in  the  queerness  of  the  things  going  on 
at   Fernleigh. 

"Oh,  I  understand  all  that,"  interrupted 
Woods  with  a  quick  gesture.  "Course  it's 
a  good  story,  but  you  see  —  I  know  the  Cun- 
ninghams  personally." 

"All  the  better  —  the  old  man'll  know 
you  can  be  trusted  with   the   inside  story." 

Woods  smiled  absently.  His  thoughts  were 
not  on  "the  old  man"  —  not  by  a  whole 
generation.  His  recoil  from  the  notion  of 
invading  her  atmosphere  was  not  merely 
because  the  rather  young  girl  on  the  broad 
terrace  stood  for  all  the  grace  and  dignity 

[3] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


of  life  so  completely  lacking  from  the  news 
point  of  view;    there  was  another  reason. 

The  last  time  he  had  seen  her  he  had  de- 
cided that  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  let  it 
remain  the  last  time.  It  was  not  good  for 
him  to  be  there.  And  as  staying  away  could 
hardly  inconvenience  her,  he  was  sailing  for 
England  in  a  fortnight  to  take  the  vacant 
post  of  London  correspondent. 

The  eyes  had  undergone  another  uncon- 
scious change  at  the  thought  of  this  resolve. 
The  alert  editor  noticed  it,  misread  it.  "No 
one  could  handle  this  story  as  you  could, 
Billy,"   he  said  coaxingly. 

Woods  knew  that  too;  he  was  not  im- 
pressed. He  hardly  listened  as  the  editor 
went  on.  "It  was  queer  enough  when  an 
old  aristocrat  of  General  Cunningham's 
stripe  joined  Tammany  —  country  isn't  over 
its  shock  yet  —  former  Cabinet  officer  and 
all  that  —  a  man  who  came  within  an  ace  of 
the  Presidential  nomination,  mixing  up  here 

[4] 


IN   THE   BERKSHIRES 


in  municipal  politics.  But  when  he  invites 
Jake  Shayne,  Jerry  McCarter,  and  others  of 
that  sort  to  spend  Sunday  at  his  country 
place !  He  must  be  getting  dotty,  eh  ?  Or 
else  —  what's  he  doing  it  for,  Woods,  what's 
he  doing  it  for !  The  old  fox  wouldn't  fetch 
that  gang  up  there  for  fun.  Something  will 
be  doing  up  there  this  evening,  something 
big.  And  if  you  get  the  facts,  you'll  have  a 
beat  on  the  whole  town." 

And  still  the  eyes  failed  to  focus  on  the 
story,  even  though  it  held  out  the  possibility 
of  exclusive  news  —  the  one  thing  regarded 
seriously  in  the  newspaper  world.  Ordi- 
narily the  editor  was  a  man  of  few  words. 
"Oh,  well,"  he  broke  off  abruptly  with  the 
impatience  of  one  who  had  cast  pearls  before 
swine,  "if  you  don't  want  it  —  plenty  of 
others  who  will." 

"Who  said  I  didn't  want  it?"  returned 
Woods,  sullenly,  and  impetuously  grabbing 
some    copy-paper  which   he   thrust,    folded, 

[5] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


into  his  pocket,  he  stalked  out  of  the  room, 
cane  swinging,  head  thrown  back,  glasses 
sliding  down  —  the  manner  so  well  known 
along  Park  Row. 

"  There  goes  the  great  Billy  Woods,  off  on 
a  big  story/*  One  of  the  youngsters  nudged 
the  newest  cub  as  the  experienced  "all 
'round  man"  passed  out.  "Got  the  best 
nose  for  news  in  New  York."  Even  reporters 
sometimes  have  their  hero-worshippers. 

The  city  editor  allowed  himself  a  quiet 
smile.  He  thought  he  had  brought  Woods 
around.  j? 


It  did  prove  to  be  a  "big  story";  as  it 
turned  out,  the  most  important  in  the  whole 
remarkable  career  of  "the  great  Billy  Woods," 
but  it  was  neither  flattery  nor  his  news  sense 
that  led  him  to  it.  Certain  other  instincts 
were  not  yet  burned  out  of  him.  While  the 
editor  had  talked,  one  phrase  had  penetrated 
the  mist  of  the  young  man's  abstraction, 
[6] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES     / 

gripping  his  mind :  "  Must  be  getting  ^ 
No  one  knew  those  guests  at  Fernleigh  bettc. 
than  Woods  —  not  even  their  host.  And  if 
the  "old  fox's"  eyes  were  becoming  dim 
with  age,  God  help  the  old  fox  among  that 
flock  of  vultures.  Doubtless  the  sudden 
impulse  which  turned  the  young  man  toward 
Fernleigh  would  have  amused  the  dignified 
old  statesman.  A  reporter  to  the  rescue ! 
But  here  again  the  young  man  was  not  con- 
cerned about  the  old  one,  but  about  his 
daughter,  who  would  suffer  if  he  did. 

For,  not  all  of  the  romance  and  knight- 
errantry  of  youth  had  been  torn  from  him 
by  the  heartless  realities  he  confronted  in 
his  daily  duties.  Even  reporters  sometimes 
have  their  little  dreams. 


[7] 


II 

Dignified  old  gentlemen  have  their  dreams 
too.  General  Cunningham's  long-cherished 
project  for  the  benefit  of  his  native  city 
seemed  about  to  reach  realization.  The 
plan  for  which  he  had  wrestled  so  persist- 
ently with  his  fellow-commissioners  ever 
since  he  had  accepted  the  presidency  of  the 
board,  was  at  last  in  the  form  of  a  bill, 
about  to  be  presented  at  Albany  and  rushed 
through  both  Houses  —  almost  before  the 
newspapers  might  have  a  chance  to  gain 
their  breath  for  screaming.  It  was  no  other 
than  the  celebrated  Cunningham  bill,  provid- 
ing water-front  parks  halfway  around  Man- 
hattan   Island. 

It  was  partly  as  a  subtle  recognition  of 
their  worthiness  in  coming  to  his  broad  view 
of  the  question,  partly  to  put  the  finishing 
[8] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


touches  upon  the  bill  in  uninterrupted  seclu- 
sion, that  General  Cunningham,  to  the  horror 
of  his  sister,  Mrs.  Metcalfe,  and  the  amuse- 
ment of  his  daughter  Frances,  had  invited 
his  confreres  of  the  board  to  spend  Sunday 
with  him  at  Fernleigh. 

During  the  progress  of  the  banquet  that 
evening  for  celebration  and  mutual  admira- 
tion, v^hile  Woods  was  still  on  his  way  to 
Fernleigh,  Miss  Cunningham,  becoming 
bored  by  dining  in  the  library  with  her 
indignant  aunt,  decided  to  wander  out  upon 
the  terrace,  the  night  being  warm.  Next 
it  pleased  her  to  cross  the  court  to  the  other 
wing  of  the  house  for  the  purpose  of  seeing 
some  of  the  fun  through  the  dining-room 
windows.  Mrs.  Metcalfe,  to  see  that  no 
harm  came  of  it,  followed  with  the  resigned 
expression  of  an  aunt  who  has  long  since 
ceased  hoping  to  control  a  motherless  niece. 

Frances  was  young.  She  looked  espe- 
cially  so   this   evening,   in   white.     Her   de- 

[9] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


meanor  was  piquant,  unconventional,  with 
far  more  assurance  than  a  girl  of  her  age 
was  entitled  to.  Mrs.  Metcalfe  put  it  down 
to  ignorance  of  the  world  she  had  so  recently 
entered,  being  too  secure  in  her  position 
there  to  be  conscious  of  it,  or  to  look  down 
upon  those  not  so  blessed.  And  the  aunt 
prayed  that  she  might  retain  the  charm  of 
this  after  she  had  gained  knowledge  of 
many  other  things  —  which  was  not  unlike 
her  other  hope,  that  the  girl's  figure  would 
retain  its  present  slimness  after  the  lines  of 
her  neck  became  more  rounded. 

The  dinner  had  already  reached  a  hilarious 
stage.  Mrs.  Metcalfe,  a  rather  imposing 
person,  tried  to  take  it  humorously,  but 
yielded  to  her  natural  impulse  to  be  scan- 
dalized,   which    she    enjoyed    much    more. 

"But  think  how  nice  it  is  for  them, 
aunty,"  commented  the  girl;  "they  are 
being  reformed."  She  peered  down  the 
broad  allee  toward  the  lake.     A  man  was 

[10] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


crossing  the  irregular  patches  of  moonUght 
and  shadows  cast  by  the  trees  to  the  east. 
"Who's   coming?"   she   asked. 

"It's  Gilbert.  I  sent  for  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Metcalfe  in  an  authoritative  tone,  intended 
to  veil  any  possible  note  of  guilt  in  it. 

Frances  said  Oh,  and  asked  Why. 

"To  help  us,"  Mrs.  Metcalfe  replied,  and 
looked  toward  the  dining  room  as  though 
reproaching  its   ill-timed   silence. 

Frances  repeated.  Oh !  and  continued  to 
watch  the  young  man  approaching  with  dig- 
nified, deliberate  strides.  The  Townsends 
always  took  this  short  cut  from  their  place. 

Gilbert  Townsend  was  an  intellectual- 
looking  man  of  thirty,  and  elected  to  wear 
diminutive  side-whiskers,  about  the  size  of 
dominoes.  A  specially  blocked,  unfashion- 
able hat  proclaimed  his  scorn  of  ordinary 
city  smartness.  But  along  with  a  super- 
refined  manner,  he  was  possessed  of  the 
observing  eye.     He  was   not   very  tall   and 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


stood  stiffly  erect  as  if  to  make  himself  reach 
higher,  though  more  Hkely  this  was  merely 
from  feeling  the  necessity  of  balancing  the 
weight  of  wealth  and  responsibility  which 
had  descended  upon  his  head  two  years 
ago  with  the  death  of  his  well-known  — 
some  would  say  notorious  —  father.  It  was 
this  weight,  no  doubt,  which  made  him 
walk  and  talk  with  the  air  of  a  man  to  be 
reckoned  with.  When  talking  to  women 
his  manner  was  graceful,  even  courtly, 
with  an  old-world  repose  not  understood 
by  those  who  laughed  at  it.  With  men  he 
was  seldom  so  much  at  ease.  Most  of  them 
looked  upon  him  as  a  harmless  millionnaire 
of  the  less  prevalent  type,  who  cherished 
honest  if  visionary  ideals  of  bettering  the 
world  and  spoke  rather  too  frequently  of 
Wealth  as  a  Sacred  Trust,  and  said  nothing 
about  the  unsacredness  of  the  trust  by  which 
his  wealth  had  been  acquired. 

In  his  daily  life  he  affected  the  English 
[12] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


ideal  —  not  because  it  was  English,  as  his 
detractors  sneered  —  but  because  it  seemed 
ideal  to  him.  He  seldom  used  the  town 
house,  despised  the  city  and  its  social  strain- 
ings, though  retaining  the  inherited  box  at 
the  opera  because  he  believed  in  encourag- 
ing the  arts  as  well  as  numerous  charities, 
at  which  he  kept  two  secretaries  busy.  Much 
of  his  own  time  he  spent  abroad  or  in  the 
country,  where  he  was  interested  in  Jersey 
cows  and  an  Italian  garden. 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  had  gone  forward  to  meet 
him,  followed  less  eagerly  by  Frances.  The 
former  greeted  him  effusively.  "It  is  so 
good  of  you,"  she  said  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"  My  time  is  at  your  command  —  always," 
returned  young  Townsend,  bowing  low. 
"How  do  you  do,  Frances.?"  he  said,  ad- 
vancing toward  her  with  a  quizzical  smile, 
and  again  bowed  low,  but  with  a  difference, 
over  her  extended  hand,  taking  it  delicately 
as  though  it  were  an  object  of  rare  beauty, 

[13] 


IIIK    DAY-DREAMER 


and   fragile;  whereas  it  was  merely  of  rare 
beauty,   as   she   knew. 

Frances  gripped  his  fingers  like  a  golf 
club.  ''Hello,"  she  said,  and  tried  to  pro- 
nounce   it    vulgarly. 

"Mother  has  guests  for  the  week-end," 
he  murmured  to  her  with  his  fastidiously 
modulated  tones,  "but  your  message  said 
'Come  at  once  !'*' 

"Awfully  nice  of  you,  Gilbert,"  said  the 
girl.      "But  I  didn't  send  any  message." 

"I  knew  it  would  bring  him,  my  dear," 
Mrs.  Metcalfe  put  in,  smiling,  "if  I  said 
you    wanted    him." 

Frances  shrugged  her  shoulders,  not  ill- 
naturedly.  "But  I  don't.  Do  I,  Gilbert.?" 
It  was  her  recent  note  with  him.  He  did 
not  fancy  it,  but  overlooked  it. 

"Here  they  come!"  cried  Mrs.  Metcalfe, 
in   a  sudden   panic. 

"Stand  fast,  aunty,"  whispered  Frances, 
encouragingly. 

[H] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


The  three  moved  into  the  shadow  as  the 
dinner  party  filed  through  the  open  door, 
voluble  and  vulgar,  all  smoking  long  cigars 
arrogantly. 

"Why  is  he  sending  them  into  the 
garden?"  whispered  Gilbert.  He,  too,  was 
rather  scandalized  by  the  general's  recent 
move. 

"To   meet  you,"   suggested   Frances. 

"He  should  pack  them  off  to  bed,"  de- 
clared Mrs.  Metcalfe. 

"Perhaps  they  need  fresh  air,"  hazarded 
the  girl. 

The  ladies  pointed  out  to  Gilbert  the 
various  celebrities  descending  the  steps  in 
the  flooding  light  of  the  open  door.  They 
were  by  no  means  of  one  type.  First  came 
Major  Shayne,  whose  profession  was  Law 
and  whose  practice  was  Politics.  "Looks 
disappointingly  meek,"  was  Gilbert's  whis- 
pered comment.  With  him  was  Sam  Nord- 
heimer,  wholesale  whiskey,  Shayne's  running 

[15] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


mate  and  sometimes  understudy;  a  bully 
but  a  coward  at  heart,  as  Shayne,  who  used 
him,  knew.  Murphy  and  Munger,  black- 
mustached,  frock-coated,  more  common  tribal 
specimens,  one  fat  and  the  other  thin.  Be- 
hind them  jovial  Jerry  McCarter,  well 
known  and  beloved  of  every  one  about  City 
Hall. 

Shayne  and  Nordheimer  were  dressed  in 
evening  clothes  and  seemed  to  be  at  ease  in 
them.  But  Jerry  had  clung  to  his  accus- 
tomed creamy-gray  frock  coat  with  a  pink 
carnation  in  the  buttonhole;  all  seemed  in 
jovial  after-dinner  mood,  but  he,  like  one  or 
two  others,  had  unmistakably  taken  too 
much  of  the  general's  champagne,  and 
wishing  to  express  his  appreciation  of  every- 
thing in  sight  he  waited  by  the  door  to  join 
the  dignified  old  gentleman  bringing  up  the 
rear.  McCarter,  not  being  in  a  listless 
mood,  employed  the  interval  in  assisting  his 
fellow-guests  down  the  terrace  steps  until, 
[i6] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


this  becoming  monotonous,  he  decided  to 
accelerate  their  descent  instead,  which  he 
accompHshed  with  varying  success. 

Following  the  other  members  of  the  board 
came  their  host,  General  Cunningham.  He 
was  obviously  concerned  over  the  condi- 
tion of  some  of  his  guests,  —  this  was  why 
he  had  suggested  leaving  the  table  and  all 
that  stood  thereon,  —  but  still  looked  his 
part:  aristocratic  mien,  heavy,  dignified 
presence,  urbanely  gracious  in  manner,  old- 
fashioned,  at  times  florid,  in  expression  — 
a  statesman  of  the  old  school,  surrounded 
by  politicians  of  the  new. 

"Say,  how  about  it,  gineral  ?"  McCarter 
exclaimed,  considerately  pointing  out  the 
moonlit  landscape  that  spreads  out  before 
one  on  the  terrace  at  Fernleigh.  "Good  as 
Coney,  eh?"  And,  grasping  his  slow- 
moving  host  by  the  arm,  he  endeavored 
to  demonstrate  his  appreciation  by  showing 
those  in    the  garden  below  how  well  he  and 

[17] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


a  former  Cabinet  officer  could  do  a  cakewalk 
by  moonlight. 

"Watch  papa  trying  to  look  democratic!" 
whispered  Frances. 

"How  can  you  laugh?"  reproved  Mrs. 
Metcalfe. 

"What  else  can  I  do?"  asked  her  niece. 
"Gilbert,  you  are  a  man;  this  is  where  you 
come  in." 

Gilbert  hesitated,  then  achieved  an  in- 
spiration. Hurrying  across  to  the  general 
he  whispered  his  suggestion.  In  a  moment 
the  entire  dinner  party  was  marching  ecstati- 
cally down  the  allee  to  enjoy  a  launch  ride 
on  the  lake  by  moonlight.  Gilbert,  bring- 
ing up  the  rear,  waved  his  hand  to  the  ladies 
as  he  descended  the  lower  steps. 

At  about  this  time  Woods  w^s  changing 
cars    at   the  junction. 

There  had  been  another  reason  for  send- 
ing   for    Gilbert.     Dr.    Strange,    the    nerve 
[i8] 


IN   THE   BERKSHIRES 


specialist,  had  pronounced  the  strain  of 
riding  the  tiger  a  Httle  too  racking  for  a 
man  of  the  general's  age,  and  had  ordered 
him  abroad  for  a  year;  Frances  was  to  go 
with  him. 

As  the  sound  of  the  men's  voices  died  away 
Mrs.  Metcalfe  turned  and  looked  quizzically 
at  her  young  niece.  "How  long  do  you 
propose  to  keep  him  dangling  .f"'  she  asked. 

Frances  pretended  not  to  understand. 
But  her  aunt  did  not  consider  this  worth 
noticing  and  went  on,  "Don't  you  think, 
my  dear,  that  before  you  sail " 

"I  haven't  asked  him  to  dangle." 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  reminded  her  of  the  fact 
that  every  one  thought  them  engaged  already. 
And  Frances  reminded  her  that  this  was  her 
aunt's  fault. 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  took  up  the  old  theme  of 
how  different  was  Gilbert  from  most  young 
men  of  great  wealth.  "Instead  of  selfish 
dissipation "  she  began. 

[19] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"It  takes  more  than  that  to  account  for 
his  unpopularity,"  put  in  Frances,  wishing 
to  cut  it  short. 

"Think  of  the  good  he  does."  Her  aunt 
was  not  to  be  cut  short.  "The  reading- 
rooms    he    estabhshes " 

"With  his  name  plastered  all  over  them." 

"It  is  a  good  name." 

"I  don't  want  it.  Let  him  give  it  to 
reading-rooms." 

"All  the  same,"  returned  her  aunt,  laugh- 
ing, "I  believe  that  deep  down  in  your 
heart  you're  still  tremendously  fond  of 
him." 

"Of  course  I  am,"  said  Frances. 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  raised  her  eyebrows,  and 
replied  whimsically,  "If  you  only  wouldn't 
agree  so  readily!"  Then  she  added  in  a 
more  serious  tone  than  she  intended, 
"Frances,  I  sometimes  fear  you're  becom- 
ing fond  of —  some  one  else." 

"What  nonsense!"  That  was  a  sufficient 
[20] 


IN   THE   BERKSHIRES 


reply,  but  the  girl  went  on,  "Of  course  not," 
and  supplemented,  "How  could  you  con- 
ceive such  an  absurd  idea!" 

This  time  her  aunt  remarked,  "If  you 
only  wouldn't  ^z Vagree  so  readily  ! " 

The  girl  moved  toward  the  steps. 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  was  laughing.  "Before 
you  go  in,  you  might  tell  me  who  we  are 
talking    about." 

The  girl  hesitated  a  moment,  then  turned 
and  joined  in  the  laugh.  "It  was  natural, 
though,    for    me    to    think    you    meant    his 


cousm 


Very  natural." 

"Don't  be  tiresome,  aunty.  I  mean  be- 
cause he  is  a  cousin,  and  a  contrast."  She 
turned  toward  the  steps  again.  "  Mr.  Woods 
merely    interests    me." 

"Oh,     he    merely    interests    you,"     Mrs. 

Metcalfe   mused    aloud.     "I    hope   he   does 

not  interest  you  as  much  as  he  alarms  your 

father   and    me."     The   time    had    come   to 

[21] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


speak.  "Now,  my  dear,  no  doubt  this 
handsome    young    bohemian " 

"He  abhors  the  bohemian  pose,  by  the 
way." 

" — seems  very  romantic  and  fascinating 
to  a  girl  of  your  age " 

"Do  you  know,"  put  in  Frances,  stopping 
on  the  steps  meditatively,  "I  never  think 
of  him  as  exactly  fascinating." 

"Dear,  dear,"  thought  Mrs.  Metcalfe, 
"is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  And  abandoning 
her  unfinished  sentence,  she  began  another 
in  a  different  tone  of  voice,  approaching  her 
niece  tenderly.  "I  hesitate  to  interfere,  but, 
my  child,  you  were  left  motherless  at  a  rather 
critical   age." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  returned  the  girl, 
embracing  her.  "We  are  delighted  to  have 
you  at  Fernleigh,  aunty  darling.  And  I 
shall  be  quite  broken-hearted  if  that  persist- 
ent old  Judge  Lansing " 

"  How  absurd ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Metcalfe, 

[22] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


wondering  if  he  really  did  seem  so  old  to 
others. 

"But,  my  child,"  continued  her  niece 
with  gravity,  "you  were  left  husbandless 
at   a   rather  critical   age." 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  laughed.  "  I  must  beg  you 
to  be  serious,  Frances." 

"I  am.     I  think  it's  scandalous,  aunty." 

"Your  father  and  I,"  returned  Mrs. 
Metcalfe,  no  longer  smiling,  "can't  help 
feeling  much  concerned  about  this  interest 
you  manifest  in  —  all  sorts  of  people." 
The  girl  seemed  anxious  to  escape,  Mrs. 
Metcalfe  rapidly  pursuing  with,  "When  a 
young  man  squanders  all  his  patrimony  in 
one  year " 

"Isn't  that  interesting!"  interpolated  the 
girl,  teasingly  enthusiastic,  from  the  top  step. 

" — in  folly  and  wickedness " 

"A  dark  past!"  said  the  girl,  looking 
down  at  her  aunt,  "that  makes  such  a  fine 
background   for   a   brilHant   future!" 

[23] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


Mrs.  Metcalfe  was  interrupted  but  not 
diverted;  " — who  has  been  cut  adrift  by 
his  own  family " 

"Makes  him  so  pathetic,  doesn't  it,  aunty  ? 
Good  night." 

"Why,  the  man's  a  mere  reporter,"  pro- 
nounced Mrs.  Metcalfe  with  an  air  of  finality. 
"Gilbert,  his  own  cousin,  says  so." 

Frances  came  back  again.  "A  man  who 
has  won  world-wide  fame  as  a  war  corre- 
spondent," she  said  with  spirit,  "rescued  a 
besieged  garrison  by  his  personal  daring,  and 
received  the  public  thanks  of  Parliament  for 
it"  —  she  paused  —  "I  fancy  he  can  stand 
being  called  a  mere  reporter  by  a  mere  mil- 
lionnaire  whose  only  achievement  is  tossing 
back  to  the  masses  a  few  of  the  many  dollars 
his  unscrupulous  father " 

"Frances!"  Mrs.  Metcalfe  interrupted, 
"have  respect  for  the  dead!" 

"Why  didn't  he  ever  respect  the  living?" 

"But  surely  you   know  that  nearly  every 

[24] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


one  is  directly  or  indirectly  interested  in  the 
trusts !  Your  own  father  was  once  Mr. 
Townsend's  attorney." 

"And  that's  the  only  blot  on  father's 
career." 

"Besides,  Gilbert  is  not  a  mere  million- 
naire."  Mrs.  Metcalfe  smiled,  frankly 
worldly.  "He's  a  multi-millionnaire."  She 
did  not  like  the  vulgar  phrase,  the  use  of 
which  she  excused  with  a  shrug,  but  she 
wanted  the  meaning  to  sink  in. 

"Very  commonplace  thing  nowadays," 
said  the   girl.     "Know  a   dozen   of  'em." 

"Well,  I'm  thankful  to  say  you  don't  know 
dozens  of  interesting  reporters."  Mrs.  Met- 
calfe was  sparring  for  time.  "Why  doesn't 
this  harum-scarum  cousin  of  Gilbert's  re- 
main   a   war   correspondent.'*" 

"When  the  war's  over  .f"' 

"Then  why  isn't  he  an  editor  or  some- 
thing r 

"Because  he  says  it's  more  fun  to  write." 

[25] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"  But  after  all,  to  be  a  mere  reporter 


"A  war  correspondent  is  a  mere  re- 
porter,  with  a  pith  helmet  on.     He  said  so." 

"But   it   is   so   much   more   respectable." 

"A  historian  is  a  mere  reporter  sur- 
rounded by  a  library." 

"H'm.  He  said  so?"  But  Mrs.  Met- 
calfe  did  not  stop  to  exult.  "If  he  weren't 
so  erratic,"  she  pronounced,  condemningly, 
"he  would  keep  on  writing  novels.  It's  so 
much  nicer." 

"Aunty,  I  don't  suppose  I  ought  to  tell 
you  this.  But  he  wrote  'Avenging  City' 
as  a  burlesque  on  the  pseudo-historical 
romance,  with  an  average  of  two  sudden 
deaths  a  chapter,  on  a  bet  that  it  would 
find  a  pubhsher,  and  it  did  —  and  the  pub- 
lic took  it  seriously !  Among  others,  your- 
self." 

"Then  why  didn't  he  do  it  again?" 

"He  tried  to,  but  you  see  this  time  he 
took     it     seriously  —  and     failed.     But     I 

[26] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


don't  see  why  you  think  it  is  so  much  more 
respectable  to  scribble  lies  about  the  Court 
of  Louis  Fourteenth  than  to  unearth  the 
truth  about  the  intriguing  rulers  of  our 
own  city  and  their  court  —  on  Fourteenth 
street." 

She  paused  and  sat  down  on  the  bench, 
somewhat  overcome  by  her  own  eloquence. 
No  wonder  it  made  him  cynical,  she 
thought.  William  Peyton  Woods,  the  dash- 
ing young  war  correspondent  and  the  au- 
thor of  a  book  much  sought  by  school- 
girls, housemaids,  and  old  ladies,  was  wined 
and  dined,  while  honest  Billy  Woods,  one 
of  the  anonymous  writers  of  the  daily  his- 
tory of  civilization,  was  despised  and  spurned 
—  away  with  the  reporter ! 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  looked  at  her  romantic 
young  niece  critically.  Finally  she  said, 
arising  to  go  in,  "Frank,  there's  just  one 
thing  I  want  you  to  promise  your  old  aunty." 
She  applied  her  wheedling  tone.     "In  these 

[27] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


two  weeks  before  I  get  you  safely  away  on 
the  Cedricy  you  will  not  let  this  man  make 
love  to  you  ?"        • 

"Let  him!  Why,  I  can't  make  him. 
I  never  saw  such  a  man."  She  looked 
critical. 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  laughed  and  threw  up 
her  hands  in  despair.  The  child  was  in- 
corrigible. "I  wish  you  could  be  serious, 
Frank,"  she  said. 

"  I  can  be  .  .  with  Billy  Woods.  That's 
one  of  the  nicest  things  about  him."  She 
sat  down  by  the  fountain,  with  chin  on 
hands  as  if  to  talk  it  over.  "He  treats  me 
as  if  I  really  knew  something,  and  listens 
in  that  intent,  grave  manner  to  everything 
I  have  to  say  —  except  when  I  am  listen- 
ing to  him,  and  then  I  am  intent  and  grave, 
too.     It's  lots  of  fun." 

"Suppose  he  asked  you  to  marry  him. 
Would  you  listen  to  that,  too?" 

This  word   drove   all   the   banter  out   of 

[28] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


the  girl.  "No,"  she  said,  jumping  up. 
"I  wouldn't.  I  don't  want  to  marry  any 
of  them."  She  turned  her  back  on  her 
aunty  and  added,  "  If  you  and  father  really 
want  to  marry  me  off,  you'll  have  to  stop 
talking  about  it.  Didn't  your  generation 
ever  think  of  anything  but  marrying  ? 
Did  you  always  sit  around  this  way?" 
—  she  resumed  her  seat  on  the  bench  and 
imitated  the  pose  of  an  old  daguerreotype  — 
"with  your  hair  smacked  down  over  your 
temples  like  this,  doing  fancy  work"  — 
she  burlesqued  a  sentimental  sigh  —  "  un- 
til he  came  to  call  ?  Then,  when  he  was 
announced,  you  were  all  in  a  fooHsh  little 
flutter  on  the  horse-hair  furniture!" 

She  also  burlesqued  the  flutter  and  went 
on  patronizingly  to  the  amused  Mrs.  Met- 
calfe, "But  with  us  of  to-day,  you  see, 
men  are  merely  an  incident,  aunty  dear, 
like  horses  or  golf,  or  books  —  one  of  the 
necessary  parts  of  the   day's    programme." 

[29] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


She  stopped  and  glanced  at  her  aunt.  "To 
be  sure,"  she  was  frank  enough  to  add, 
"they  are  about  the  best  fun  of  the  lot, 
but  —  dear  me,  nothing  to  get  so  excited 
over.  Now,  for  instance,  when  a  man  calls 
on   me " 

"Mr.  Woods,  ma'am,"  announced  the 
butler  on  the  terrace. 

"Oh,  good  gracious!"  Frances  ejacu- 
lated, her  hands  flying  to  her  hair,  while 
she  gave  a  still  more  convincing  portrayal 
of  a  young  person  in  the  act  of  fluttering. 


[30] 


Ill 

Woods  came  down  the  steps  rather  briskly, 
passed  by  on.  the  other  side  of  the  fountain, 
and  looked  about  so  intently  for  some 
one  else  that  the  ladies  thought  at  first 
that  he  had  not  seen  them  at  all.  His 
keen  glance  darted  here  and  there  over 
the  garden,  through  the  pergola,  down  the 
allee,  and  finally,  with  a  slight  movement 
of  annoyance,  swung  round  to  the  ladies 
to  whom  he  now  offered  a  reserved,  if  defer- 
ential bow,  and  remained  uncovered,  with 
eyes  down,  as  if  to  make  amends  for  his 
momentary  abstraction. 

For  a  reporter  he  was  a  rather  scholarly- 
looking  person,  with  a  good  nose  and  glasses 
which  slid  down  persistently.  He  had  a 
slight  stoop,  —  a  becoming  one,  Frances 
thought,  —  was  tall    and    dark,  but   not   in 

[31] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


the  least  mysterious,  despite  his  very  deep- 
set  eyes  and  the  sometimes  lowering  brows 
over  them.  This  was  what  the  girl  had 
referred  to  —  rather  disappointedly,  by  the 
way  —  when  informing  her  aunt  that  he 
was  not  exactly  "fascinating."  The  ever 
changing  quirks  about  the  corners  of  his 
mobile  mouth  were  too  human  and  too 
humorous  to  let  him  seem  mysterious  or 
impressive  very  long.  Indeed,  the  note 
of  his  personality,  when  in  repose,  as  he 
now  was  or  seemed  to  be,  suggested  bland, 
impractical  guilelessness.  But  when  once 
his  interest  was  aroused  in  anything,  he 
became  oblivious  of  everything  else  and 
showed  another  personality;  intense,  en- 
thusiastic, full  of  fire  and  force,  dropping 
his  former  absent-minded  indifference  be- 
hind, like  the  blanket  of  a  fresh  half-back 
called  into  the  game  from  the  side-line. 
These  changes  were  sometimes  so  great 
that   they    seemed    almost   like   transforma- 

[32] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


tions  in  their  suddenness,  surprising  those 
who  did  not  know  him,  with  the  unex- 
pected dominance  and  tremendous  nerv- 
ous energy  of  the  real  man  broken  loose. 
His  impractical  guilelessness  was  then  seen 
to  be  but  a  shell  —  some  said  a  deliber- 
ately worn  veil,  but  this  was  not  true  — 
which  covered  a  practical  knowledge,  if 
not  understanding,  of  men  and  affairs  on 
two  continents,  with  more  intimate  per- 
sonal information  obtained  at  first  hand  of 
personages  and  places  worth  knowing 
than  was  possessed,  perhaps,  by  any  other 
man  of  his  years  on  either  continent.  As 
with  most  of  his  profession,  his  information 
was  chiefly  of  the  outsides  of  things,  though 
he  thought  as  they  all  do,  that  he  knew  the 
rest,  because  he  was  so  often  aware  of  the  un- 
printed  "inside  story."  But  his  knowledge 
was  exceedingly  broad,  if  not  deep,  and 
was  universal  in  its  miscellaneousness.  His 
deductions,   so   far   as   he   ever   consciously 

[33] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


made  any,  were  youthfully  cynical  —  ab- 
surdly so  for  a  man  supposed  to  have  the 
opportunity  for  observing  all  sides  of  life 
in  perspective. 

Young  Woods  could  not  only  talk  on 
every  topic  under  the  sun  with  an  intelli- 
gent rapidity  that  made  slow-thinking  men 
blink  —  and  with  illuminating  facial  ex- 
pressions which  made  women  look  for  them 
—  but,  what  was  far  more  important  to 
himself  and  made  him  more  entertaining 
to  others,  he  could  make  others  talk  whether 
they  wanted  to  or  not.  It  was  said  that 
the  busiest  bank  presidents  and  the  most 
sphinx-Hke  foreign  ministers  would  "open 
up"  for  him  as  readily  as  a  theatrical  press- 
agent.  This,  of  course,  was  the  over-state- 
ment of  hero-worshippers,  the  fact  being 
that  many  would  talk  to  him  when  they 
would  talk  for  no  other  interviewer,  and 
it  was  not  merely  because  he  could  be 
relied   upon,   as   most   interviewers  with  an 

[34] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


established  reputation  can,  to  keep  out  of 
the  paper  more  than  he  put  in. 

"How  do  you  do?"  Mrs.  Metcalfe  had 
said,  with  cold  distinction.  "How  do  you 
do?"  straightway  echoed  Frances  indiffer- 
ently. She  had  assumed  the  elevated  eye- 
brow poise  of  the  modern  young  woman 
and  glanced  at  her  aunt  to  see  if  she  appre- 
ciated it,  then  looked  back  at  him. 

At  this  Woods  took  a  quick  step  forward 
and  stopped.  His  movements  were  impetu- 
ous and  elastic,  giving  the  effect  of  flashes 
that  are  finished  before  the  mind  receives 
the  impression  furnished  by  the  eye.  "They 
told  me  he  was  out  here,"  he  said  with 
deliberation.  His  voice  was  low  and  well 
modulated,  his  enunciation  as  free  from 
the  provincialisms  of  New  York,  where  he 
had  spent  most  of  his  manhood,  as  it  was 
from  those  of  the  South,  where  he  had  been 
born,  though  he  lapsed  into  the  latter  when 
excited.  He  had  been  educated  in  Europe. 
[  35  ] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


"Father  is  out  in  the  launch,"  said  Fran- 
ces. "He  may  not  be  back  for  two  hours. 
But  he  doesn't  want  to  see  you,  anyway." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Woods,  and  took 
out  his  watcho  Two  hours  was  a  long 
period  at  this  stage  of  the  newspaper  day, 
especially  when  it  is  Saturday.  He  looked 
troubled.  The  paper  went  to  press  early 
Saturday  night. 

"But  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  in  the 
meanwhile,"  the  girl  threw  out  tentatively, 
with  a  glance  at  the  lake  and  the  moon  now 
glinting  it.     The  young  man  made  no  reply. 

"Unfortunately,"  put  in  Mrs.  Metcalfe, 
"there  is  a  great  deal  that  I  must  do. 
Good  night,"  she  said,  not  very  enthusiasti- 
cally, and,  shaking  her  head  warningly  at 
her  niece,  she  reluctantly  left  the  two  young 
people  in  the  moonlight.  She  could  have 
managed  without  going  in,  but  she  was  a 
wise  enough  obstructionist  to  know  that  such 
a  policy  might  only  prove  a  boomerang. 

[36] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


Woods  had  bowed  mechanically.  He 
was  trying  to  forget  both  of  the  ladies,  and 
wondering  what  to  do  about  this  matter 
of  two  hours.  He  had  discovered  long  \ 
since  that  the  telephone  had  been  taken 
out.  He  knew  that  the  nearest  telegraph 
office  was  fourteen  miles  distant  by  rail. 
He  had  bribed  the  operator  to  stay  open 
late.  The  last  chance  of  reaching  this 
means  of  communication  with  the  night 
editor,  before  the  paper  went  to  press,  was  a 
late  train  which  could  be  stopped  on  signal 
at  the  semi-private  station  of  Fernleigh. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  kT' 
asked  the  girl,  watching  his  intent  face  as 
she  sat  down  upon  the  bench. 

"No,  thanks,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  one  of  those  absent-minded  fits," 
she   said,   waiting  patiently   for  it  to   pass. 

"  Is  there  another  launch .?  —  do  you 
know  which  way  he  went  ^  —  could  I  bor- 
row a  rowboat .?  —  which  way  did  he  go?" 

[37] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


She  liked  this  flashing,  rapid-fire  manner 
of  talking  which  made  him  seem  all  energy 
and  electricity,  but  she  did  not  say  so. 

"Father  went  up  the  lake,"  she  made 
answer.  "You  might  swim.  I  beg  you 
not  to  let  me  detain  you.  Good  night. 
I  trust  you  will  enjoy  the  water."  She 
had  turned  and  was  now  walking  lazily 
up  the  steps. 

He  dashed  after  her,  both  hands  reach- 
ing out,  as  though  he  meant  to  lay  hold  of 
her.  But  when  she  turned  at  the  top  of 
the  steps  she  found  him  frowning  and  busi- 
nesslike once  more.  "But  I  simply  must 
see  your  father,"  he  said  with  a  glance 
toward  the  lake.  The  glance  did  not  stay 
there. 

She  plucked  a  leaf  from  a  bay  tree.  It 
was  with  one  of  the  wonderful  hands  he  had 
written  verses  about,  though  she  did  not 
know  that.  The  moon,  still  higher,  was 
also  looking  at  her  now. 

[38] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


"Tremendously  busy  and  important  per- 
sonage, aren't  you?"  she  mused  aloud 
with  mock  awe.  "  I  hear  you  were  in 
Washington  again  the  other  day."  Woods 
made  no  reply  to  this.  "We  were  there; 
why  didn't  you  come  to  see  me .?"  Still 
no  reply.  "I  suppose  you  were  there  to 
give  the  President  some  more  advice, "  the 
girl  went  on,  looking  down  at  him.  "Do 
you  know,  I  should  think  you'd  find  it 
a  bit  trying  at  times,  having  such  a  large 
country  on  your  hands  —  besides  writing 
books  and  seeing  that  foreign  kings  get 
their  crowns  on  straight  and  running  over 
to  Japan  to  manage  the  affairs  of  the  East- 
ern hemisphere,   and  all  that." 

"Oh,  you  don't  mind  it  when  you  get 
used  to  it,"  said  Woods,  entering  into  her 
mood,  or  pretending  to,  as  an  excuse  for 
looking  up  at  her  and  forgetting  that  he 
should  not  —  and  this  stopped  the  argu- 
ment abruptly.     He  had  a  very  intent  way 

[39] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


of  looking.  Perhaps  he  allowed  more  to 
come  into  his  gaze  than  he  intended,  rely- 
ing on  the  shadow  to  hide  it,  for  she  turned 
her  eyes  away  and  he  feared  he  had  an- 
noyed her.  "Two  hours,  you  think  .f^"  he 
asked  her. 

She  looked  back  at  him,  apparently 
quite  unannoyed,  as  if  he  had  not  come  far 
enough  into  her  existence  for  that.  "I 
suppose  I  ought  to  be  very  proud  of  my- 
self to  know  you  at  all,"  she  went  on  in 
her  chaffing  tone,  talking  as  usual  of  w^hat 
he  preferred  to  forget  when  with  her.  "Oh, 
I  am.  I  can  say,  *  I  know  him !  He  fre- 
quently lets  me  speak  to  him  —  when  he 
isn't  too  busy.  He  consults  me  on  how 
long  I  think  my  father  will  be  gone.'  What 
do  you  want  with  my  father,  Mr.  Woods  .?" 

"I  want  to  make  him  tell  me  something 
he  doesn't  want  me  to  know,"  the  reporter 
said,   as  if  disinterested. 

"What's  it  about?"    she   inquired. 

[40] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


"The  reason  for  all  this,"  he  replied  in 
the  same  calm,  disinterested  tone. 

"All  what?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Why,  this  rather  extraordinary  house- 
party.  " 

"What   house-party?" 

"Pretty  well  done  for  a — "  Woods  hu- 
morously pretended  to  check  himself. 

"  *  For  a  girl,'  I  suppose  you  mean?" 
Frances  turned  away  from  him.  "Oh, 
you  make  me  so  furious  sometimes."  But 
curiosity  got  the  better  of  her  and  she  turned 
back  again.  "How  did  you  find  out  about 
it  ?  I  think  it's  dreadful  the  way  the  news- 
papers get  hold  of  everything.  But  it's 
wonderful. " 

"Not  so  very,"  Woods  replied,  avoid- 
ing her  glance.  "You  see,  nearly  all  your 
father's  guests  have  daughters  of  their 
own." 

"I  never  realized  before  how  disagree- 
able you  could  be." 

[41] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"I  meant  that  as  a  compliment,"  said 
the  young  man,  as  an  afterthought.  "You 
see,  Jerry  McCarter's  daughter  could  not 
help  boasting  to  the  next-door  neighbors 
about  her  father's  coming  up  here  and 
breaking  into  society.  And  the  old  man 
next  door  told  some  of  his  fellow- members 
of  the  Tammany  Hall  Club  over  the  cor- 
ner saloon  that  the  McCarters  were  put- 
ting on  lugs.  It  reached  the  city  editor 
through  one  of  our  office  boys,  so  here  I 
am,  you  see."  Woods  took  out  a  cigarette. 
"There   is   nothing  wonderful   about  that." 

"Well,  you  won't  find  out  anything 
more  about  it." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will,"  he  returned  imper- 
turbably,  striking  a  match. 

Frances  came  close  to  him  and  smiled 
tauntingly.  "I  know  what  it  is,"  she  said, 
and  jeered  at  him. 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't.  I  know  your  father 
too  well." 

[42] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


"You  think  because  Fm  a  girl!"  She 
seemed  more  vexed  and  charming,  and 
she  added  haughtily,  "Father  appreciates 
me,"  with  a  significant  emphasis  upon 
the  first  word.  But  the  reporter,  smoking 
in  silence,  only  smiled  and  shook  his  head, 
unconvinced. 

"Just  to  show  you  I  do  know,"  she  pro- 
ceeded, piqued,  "Fll  tell  you  —  if  you 
promise  not  to  tell." 

"Then,  for  heaven's  sake,  don't!"  cried 
the  young  man,  retreating  from  her. 

"What  do  you  mean.?" 

"The  only  reason  I  want  to  know  is  to 
tell,"  he  said.  "I  can't  say  I  am  particu- 
larly interested,  personally,  in  what  your 
father  does  with  Tammany,  or,"  he  added 
significantly,  "what  Tammany  does  with 
your  father."  Then  he  smiled  satirically, 
and  said,  "'The  insatiable  curiosity  of  the 
ubiquitous  newspaper  reporter,'  "  puffing 
his     cigarette     again.     "We're     about     the 

[43] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


I  only  people  in  the  world  who  haven't  any 
'curiosity  left/' 

That  seemed  interesting  to  her,  but  it 
was  not  apropos.  "Don't  you  realize  that 
my  father  is  the  hardest  man  to  interview 
in  the  United  States?"  she  asked. 

Woods  nodded  calmly.  "Everybody  in 
my  trade  knows  that,  Miss  Cunningham. 
Foiling  interviewers,  they  say  in  Park  Row, 
is  his  favorite  recreation,  when  too  busy 
for   outdoor    exercise. " 

"And  that  he  hates  all  newspaper  men?" 
the  girl  added  to  clinch  her  argument. 

"So  would  I,"  laughed  Woods,  "if  one 
of  them  had  cost  me  the  Presidential  nomi- 
nation.'* 

"And  the  immaterial  fact  that  he  does 
not  want  you  to  know " 

"Makes  it  rather  unpleasant  all  round, 
you  see,"  he  said,  sitting  down,  perfectly 
at    ease. 

"But    does    not    deter    you?"     She    did 

[44] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


not  like  it,  but  it  fascinated  her.  It  seemed 
so  courageous  to  the  daughter. 

"When  your  father  was  counsel  for  the 
defence  in  the  celebrated  Townsend  Trust 
case,  he  didn't  seem  particularly  reluc- 
tant to  cross-examine  unwilling  witnesses. 
I    reported   that   trial.'* 

"Oh,  but  you  see  that  was  in  the  inter- 
est of  his  clients." 

"This  is  in  the  interest  of  my  clients, 
the  public." 

"  But  that  was  for  —  Justice. " 

"This  is  for  News  —  another  luxury  of 
civilization  which  has  become  a  necessity 
in  modern  times;  a  good  deal  cheaper  one 
than    litigation. " 

"Suppose  I  asked  you  to  write  nothing 
about  this  affair,"  said  the  girl,  tentatively, 
a  little   appealingly. 

Woods  looked  at  her,  then  out  toward 
the  lake  again  and  finally  said,  weakly, 
"Suppose  you  don't." 

[45] 


V 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"But  suppose  I  did?"  She  liked  his 
vibrant  voice  in  this  tone. 

"I'm  a  reporter,"  said  the  man  in  a  tone 
that  showed  he  considered  that  the  end  of 
the    argument. 

It  was.  She  paused  and  began  another. 
"  Why  are  you  a  reporter,  Mr.  Woods  ? 
Why    don't   you    leave    newspaper   work  ?" 

"Why  doesn't  your  father  leave  poli- 
tics?" 

"That's  his  life." 

"This  is  mine." 

"But  some  people,  so  many  people, 
think  newspaper  writing  unworthy  of  your 
talents. " 

"Some  people  think  municipal  politics 
unworthy  of  your  father's.  Not  only  that, 
Miss  Cunningham,  but  some  of  us,  whose 
business  it  is  to  follow  these  things"  —  he 
abandoned  the  bantering  tone  now  — 
"wonder  how  long  it  will  be  before  he  wishes 
he  had  never  undertaken  to  reform  a  board 

[46] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


of  commissioners  containing  one  of  the 
wariest  and  wickedest  reprobates  on  Man- 
hattan   Island." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  worry  about  father," 
she  returned  with  the  swagger  which  amused 
and  charmed  him.  "Why,  with  his  ex- 
perience with  international  diplomats  and 
all  that,  these  ward  politicians  —  pooh ! 
mere  child's  play  for  him." 

"Others  have  made  the  same  mistake," 
said  Woods,  with  the  characteristic  cyni- 
cism of  his  trade.  "Politics  is  not  a  game 
with  those  fellows.  They  don't  play  ac- 
cording to  rules.  It's  business  with  them 
—  *for  my  own  pocket  all  the  time.'" 

The  girl  smiled  upon  him  condescend- 
ingly. "Do  you  know  what  he  has  done 
with  them.?"  She  stopped  herself  ab- 
ruptly.    "But  I  won't  tell." 

Woods  suddenly  pointed  his  finger  at 
her.  "Yes,  you  will,"  he  exclaimed,  so 
fiercely    that    she    recoiled    in    alarm.     He 

[47] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


dropped  his  hand.  "If  you  don't  stop 
talking  about  it,"  he  added  and  laughed. 
And  then  they  both  laughed  together, 
which  was  rather  pleasant  while  it  lasted, 
and  she  began  her  second  argument  all 
over   again. 

"I  am  so  glad  your  paper  is  sending  you 
to  London,"  she  said  with  friendly  interest. 

The  reporter  asked  why. 

"Because  we — "  Again  she  stopped 
and  added,  laughing  at  herself — "because 
it  must  be  fine  to  be  a  foreign  correspondent. 
You  sail  on  the  Cedric  on  the   seventh.?" 

Woods  looked  at  her  a  moment  and  then 
shook  his  head  slowly.  "  I  am  afraid  I  can't 
go  at  all." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  hiding  her  disappoint- 
ment, "when  did  you  find  that  out.?" 

"This  evening." 

"Why,  what  has  interfered.?" 

"The  very  thing  I  was  going  over  there 
to   get   away   from,"    he   replied,   springing 

[48] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


up  and  getting  away  from  it.  "Something 
which  holds  me  in  spite  of  myself."  He 
turned  toward  the  lake  as  if  to  remind 
himself  of  what  he  was  here  for. 

Frances  was  young,  but  it  does  not  re- 
quire great  age  in  a  girl  to  suspect  the  mean- 
ing of  speeches  of  that  kind  from  a  man. 
Nor  was  she  too  old  to  pretend  otherwise. 
"There's  only  one  thing  that  could  interest 
you  so  much,"  she  said  sceptically,  "and 
that's  a  piece  of  news  —  what  you  call  a 
story." 

The  reporter  said  nothing,  though  every- 
thing, from  the  moon  and  the  hills  across 
the  lake  to  the  ancient  Italian  sun-dial, 
bearing  the  suggestive,  if  prosaic,  inscription 
**Tempus  Fugit,"  prompted  him  to  say 
much  —  including  the  girl  herself,  with 
her  piquant  face  raised  provokingly. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  about  it.?"  she  asked 
lightly,  telling  herself  that  she  was  becom- 
ing more  sceptical  every  minute. 

[49] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"There  are  some  stones  even  news- 
paper reporters  do  not  feel  at  liberty  to 
tell." 

"Well,  you  needn't  be  so  grandstand- 
ish  about  it,"  the  girl  replied.  "Tm 
sure  I  don't  care  to  hear  about  your  old 
story." 

Woods  laughed  and  nodded.  "I  knew 
that.     That's  why  I  don't  tell." 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  anything  of  the 
sort." 

Woods  managed  to  look  gravely  inter- 
ested. 

"There  it  is  again,"  she  said,  laughing 
at  him.  "That  irritating,  omniscient  air. 
When  you  look  that  way  I  —  I  feel  like 
screaming. " 

She  ran  up  close  to  him  and  repeated  in 
a  louder,  higher  voice,  "Screaming!  Do 
you   understand  ?" 

The  tall  reporter  looking  down  on  her, 
as   though   she  were   some   curious   type   of 

[50] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


native  he  had  discovered  in  his  rambles 
over  the  world,  controlled  himself  and 
smiled  indulgently. 

"But  you  would  only  laugh  at  me," 
she  said,  looking  up  at  him  rather  wistfully, 
as  if  aware  of  her  immaturity  and  igno- 
rance of  the  great  world  he  knew  so  much 
about.  "You  would  only  laugh  at  me, 
wouldn't  you  .f"' 

"You,"  he  said,  as  if  trying  to  convince 
himself,  "why,  you  are  only  one  of  those 
soft,  fluffy,  fragrant  little  things  called  girls. 
Aren't  you.?" 

"And  you  are  only  one  of  those  great, 
hulking,  smoky-smelling  things  called  men," 
she  returned  defiantly.  They  stood  thus 
a  moment,  looking  at  each  other  —  the 
moon  looking  at  both  of  them  —  the  fluflFy 
thing's  chin  elevated  and  eyes  upturned; 
the  hulking  thing's  mind  teeming  with 
many  unutterable  thoughts.  "Aren't  you  .f*" 
she  asked  like  a  challenge. 

[51] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"I  think,"  said  the  man,  still  looking 
down  into  her  eyes  and  speaking  very 
slowly,  "I  think  Td  better  go  down  to  the 
boat-house  to  wait  for  your  father."  But 
he  did  not  move.     "Don't  you?" 

"He's  coming  back  this  way." 

"It  might  be  too  late." 

"Too  late?" 

"For  the  story." 

He  allowed  himself  to  look  an  instant 
longer,    then    tore    himself    abruptly    away. 

"Oh,  I  believe  you're  afraid  I'll  find 
out  your  story,"  she  jeered. 

"Nonsense,"   he  said,   but   did   not  turn. 

"Oh,  but  I'm  very  good  at  getting  things 
out  of  people,"  she  called  after  him. 

"You!"  he  shouted  back.  "You're 
nothing  but  a  little  fluffy  thing." 

"Well,  I  can't  help  that,"  she  sighed, 
not  meaning  him  to  hear.  He  did  not 
hear  the  words,  but  the  night  was  so  still 
that  the  note  of  it  reached  him,  and  stopped 

[52] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


him.  He  turned  and  looked.  She  stood 
alone  in  the  moonlight,  and  seemed  to  be 
hurt.  He  rushed  back  to  her,  as  if  to  say 
much. 

"I  am  so  sorry.  I  beg  your  pardon," 
was  all  he  said,  and  turned  quickly  away 
again,  Frances  following. 

"The  moonlight  is  perfectly  stunning  on 
the  lake  by  this  time,''  she  said  casually. 

"Are  you  coming,  too?"  he  asked,  not 
very   enthusiastically,    it   seemed. 

She  drew  back.     "Don't  you  want  me  .f"' 

"Do  I  want  you!"  he  cried,  with  a  throb 
of  feeling  which  he  straightway  strangled. 
"Yes,"  he  said  gravely.  "I  should  think  it 
would  be  very  nice  in  you  to  come,  if  you 
care  to.  Miss  Cunningham." 

With  chin  elevated.  Miss  Cunningham 
turned  abruptly  toward  the  terrace,  Mr. 
Woods    following    blindly. 

"Ah,  don't  run  away  from  me,"  he  cried, 
running    to    catch    up    with    her.     "  Come ! 

[53] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


Do  come  with  me.  Won't  you  come  ?  Ah, 
do!" 

"That's  better,"  thought  the  girl  as  he 
overtook  her.  And  then,  as  they  turned 
toward  the  allee  leading  to  the  lake,  she  looked 
up  at  him.  "Do  you  know,  I  think  it's 
very  nice  of  you  to  let  me  tag  along,"  she 
said;  "why  is  it  you  never  let  me  know  you 
—  the    real   you  ? " 

He  stopped  abruptly.  "It's  what  I  try 
to  forget  when  I'm  with  you,"  he  burst  out 
impulsively,  "and  never  can,"  he  added 
with  a  laugh  which  was  not  very  tragic. 
"You  are  the  one  person  in  the  world  who 
makes   me   self-conscious." 

"That  isn't  very  nice,"  said  the  girl.  She 
was  inclined  to  go  on;  he  to  stop  as  though 
not  quite  sure  whether  he  wanted  her  to  tag 
along  after  all. 

"If  you  knew  my  real  self,  as  you  call  it," 
he  began,  with  the  conscious  laugh  again, 
and   ended  there. 

[54] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


"I  hate  confessions,"  she  said.  "They're 
so  juvenile." 

But  he  had  no  intention  of  "confessing" 
anything.  It  would  have  been  an  imper- 
tinence to  her,  even  if  it  had  not  been  an 
impossibility  to  him.  Yet  it  seemed  some- 
hov^  unfair  to  revel  in  the  trust  and  belief 
of  one  like  this.  It  disturbed  him.  If  it 
had  been  any  other  girl  it  might  not  have 
mattered.  It  never  had  mattered,  unfortu- 
nately, and  that  v^as  one  of  the  disturbing 
considerations.  But  this  girl  —  it  was  dif- 
ferent. 

He  was  silent,  perhaps  offended.  She 
was   sorry. 

"Have  you  had  a  'fearful  past'?"  she 
asked  Hghtly,  her  head  on  one  side.  "Do 
tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  added  enthusias- 
tically. They  had  not  left  the  garden,  and 
she    sat    down    upon    a    bench,    expectantly. 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  but  made  some 
diverting  reply  facetiously. 

[55] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


Since  little  more  than  a  wondering-eyed 
boy,  by  nature  a  poet  perhaps;  in  any  case 
when  far  too  young  to  assimilate  a  quarter 
of  the  ofF-scouring  scraps  of  reality  that  were 
crammed  into  his  highly-sensitized  conscious- 
ness, he  had  been  hunting  and  handling 
this  stuff  called  "News":  the  horrible,  the 
astonishing,  the  abnormal  happenings  of 
the  busy  world,  for  the  public  to  devour 
with  breakfast  and  to  curse  young  reporters 
for  writing.  He  had  had  very  little  to  do 
with  even  the  plain,  wholesome  worthiness 
of  existence.  For  why  should  men  in  his 
profession  stop  to  consider  the  ninety-nine 
happy  couples  who  do  not  appear  in  the 
divorce  courts,  the  ninety-nine  honest  Sun- 
day-school superintendents  who  do  not  hap- 
pen to  wreck  banks  .?  Such  are  not  news, 
just  as  healthy  humanity  is  not  the  stuff  on 
which  physicians  form  their  peculiar  judg- 
ments of  mankind  with  such  complacent 
superiority  to  ignorant  lay  minds.     A  dull 

[56] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


record  of  monotonous  virtue  would  be  a 
drug  on  the  market  even  at  a  penny  a  copy. 

"Why  don't  you  talk  to  me?"  asked  the 
girl.  She  did  not  want  him  to  make  love  to 
her,  but  she  did  not  want  him  not  to  want  to. 

He  said  that  it  was  remarkable  to  be  able 
to  sit  out  of  doors  so  late  in  the  season,  and 
joined  in  the  peal  of  girhsh  laughter  which 
followed.  Then  he  thought  to  inquire  whether 
it  were  not  too  cool,  however,  for  her,  with 
such  a  filmy  scarf  over  her  shoulders. 

"We  can  go  inside  if  you  prefer,"  she  said, 
chin  up  again. 

He  shook  his  head  and  talked  about  the 
stunningness  of  the  moonlight  on  the  lake 
and  asked  her  questions  about  her  horses. 
Clearly  he  was  bored,  she  thought,  and  began 
to  think  she  was  too.  He  knew  so  many 
clever  women  at  home  and  abroad.  She 
concluded  that  she  must  be  to  him  a  stupid 
little  fluffy  thing. 

As  if  mere  cleverness  were  the  quality  to 

[57] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


charm  a  man  who  possessed  that  himself, 
who  dealt  in  cleverness,  sickened  of  it  as 
every  one  does  of  the  smell  of  one's  shop. 

Superficial  cleverness  and  the  deep  dis- 
quieting truths  beneath  its  smirking  surface 
had  been  his  daily  life,  his  mental  food  from 
year  in  to  year  out,  with  very  little  time  for 
regular  rest  and  recreation  until  the  paper 
went  to  press.  And  what  was  there  to  do 
then  .?  Every  sort  of  man  must  have  recre- 
ation; his  sort,  something  robust,  after  the 
nervous  strain  of  writing.  In  the  hours  fol- 
lowing midnight  in  a  city,  when  the  theatres 
are  dark  and  most  of  the  busy  town  has  gone 
to  bed,  there  is  not  a  great  variety  of  diver- 
sion to  choose  from.  He  had  chosen  about 
all  there  was  and  had  enjoyed  it  —  until 
recently.  His  choice  was  not  deliberate, 
but  it  filled  an  organic  want  to  float  up  and 
away  from  haunting  reality  which  haunted 
him  less  while  lost  in  his  work  than  when 
relaxed    and    reflective.     Thus,    seeing   both 

[58] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


in  his  work  and  in  his  play,  so  much  of  the 
wrong  side  of  Hfe,  it  was  no  wonder  that, 
long  ago,  when  still  in  what  should  have 
been  the  idealizing  period  of  youth,  he  began 
to  think  that  the  wrong  side  was  the  right 
side,  the  prevailing  side.  He  saw  little 
that  was  worthy  of  his  respect,  so  few  things 
to  beUeve  in,  that  he  lost  the  knack  of  be- 
lieving and  respecting;  so  many  things  had 
proved  evil  or  ridiculous,  why  not  all  the 
rest  ?  Then  one  day  this  slip  of  a  girl 
dawned.     And,  oh,  the  difference ! 

She  believed  in  everybody  —  even  in  him 
—  and  that  had  made  him  want  to  do  so, 
too.  It  was  a  new  aspiration  and  he 
liked  it. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  his  lowering 
eyebrows  casting  greater  shadows  over  his 
deep-set,  steady-burning  eyes.  He  seemed 
to  be  scowling  at  her,  so  she  scowled  back 
at  him  and  said  "Booh,"  which  made  him 
laugh  with  the  sheer  joy  of  being  near  her. 

[59] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


She  shook  her  head  at  him.  "Ho!  Fm 
not  afraid  of  you,"  she  said,  and  audaciously 
added,  "Billy,"  looking  up  at  him  as  he 
started  and  tingled.  "Is  that  terribly  fresh 
of  me.?"  she  asked,  a  little  frightened,  "to 
an   author!" 

Woods  was  smiling  dreamily.  "I  always 
thought  it  a  commonplace  name,"  he  said. 
"Now  I   don't." 

"That's  very  well  done,"  smiled  the  girl. 
"You  ought  to  keep  it  for  your  new 
book." 

She  arose  to  go.  It  had  not  been  such  a 
long  delay  as  it  seemed.  He  had  done  much 
thinking.  "Got  it  all  thought  out  now?" 
she  asked,  as  if  he  had  stopped  to  shake  a 
pebble  from  his  shoe.  "Can  we  go  on 
without  any  more  self-conscious  business  ? 
I  hate  it." 

"Everything  you  do  and  say  only  makes 
me  more  conscious  of  what  I  owe  to  you!" 
burst  from  him.     "  If  I  could  only  repay  it  I " 

[  60  ] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


There  was  a  pause.     "  I  expect  no  such  luck," 
he  added,  smiling. 

The  notion  of  her  being  of  benefit  to  a 
man  like  him  was  almost  too  absurd  to  take 
seriously,  she  being  still  too  young  to  under- 
stand that  it  is  what  they  are  and  not 
what  they  do  that  makes  women  potent. 
But  he  seemed  dreadfully  serious  and  so 
she  replied,  "Well,  you  seem  to  make  me  con- 
scious that  I'm  only  a  great  big  humbug." 

He  broke  loose  now.  It  came  out  fast. 
They  forgot  the  lake. 

"You  may  be  a  humbug,  but  you've 
restored  my  belief  in  the  goodness  of  good 
things,  my  respect  for  things  respectable, 
and  so  —  my  debt  remains.  At  all  hours 
of  the  day,  down  there  in  the  dark  vortex 
of  the  city,  I  can  picture  you  to  myself,  glid- 
ing about  in  the  sunlight,  doing  the  de- 
lightful commonplace  things  of  life,  calling, 
shopping,  walking,  driving,  all  the  sweet 
normality  of  living." 

[6i] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


She  considered  it  a  stupid  picture,  un- 
worthy of  the  sweet  tones  of  his  low,  vibrant 
voice;   but  she  seemed  wiUing  to  Hsten. 

"*Now  she's  making  her  father's  tea,' 
I  say  to  myself.  *  Now  she's  talking  to  those 
lucky  little  devils  at  the  East  Side  Settle- 
ment.' And  sometimes  the  longing  just 
to  see  you,  even  from  a  distance,  comes  so 
fiercely  that  —  well,  that's  the  reason  I 
was  at  Washington,  and  why  I  appeared  in 
that  country  lane  while  you  were  at  the  house- 
party  on  the  Hudson.  One  look  at  your  face 
—  perhaps  a  touch  of  your  hand  —  and 
'Yes,  it  is  all  true,'  I  say  to  myself,  and  then 
go  back  to  handling  news  again,  believing 
once  more,  though  not  knowing  just  how,  that 
there  is  some  kind  of  intelligence  and  good- 
ness at  the  head  of  this  universe,  that  human 
nature  can't  be  so  bad,  that  there  is  a  God 
in  His  heaven  and  all's  well  with  the 
world." 

Mrs.    Metcalfe,    thinking   that    they    had 

[62] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


been  together  long  enough,  and  fearing  lest 
it  might  prove  too  long,  came  upon  them  in 
time  to  hear  a  reporter  paraphrasing  Brown- 
ing. "Frances,"  she  called,  "I'm  afraid 
it  is  becoming  too  cool  for  you." 

"Not  cool  at  all,"  said  the  girl. 

"Good  heavens!"  muttered  the  reporter, 
"I  forgot  what  I  came  for,"  and  turned 
toward  the  lake  again. 

Frances  called  up  to  her  aunt,  "Fm  going 
to  walk  down  to  the  lake  with  Billy," 
quite  as  if  she  used  his  name  without  de- 
liberation. 

"You  still  want  to  come  with  me?"  he 
whispered,   eagerly.     "Are  you   sure?" 

"  Maybe  I  know  your  real  self  now  better 
than  you  do." 

"Frances,"  called  Mrs.  Metcalfe.  There 
are  limits  to  an  aunt's  authority.  In  such 
cases  diplomacy  must  be  employed.  "You 
should  wear  a  heavier  wrap,  dear." 

The    reporter,  starting    back    for    it,  was 

[63] 


THE   DAY-DREAIMER 


blocked  by  the  aunt  who  stated  that  Frances 
alone  could  find  it. 

"I  believe  you  write  for  the  newspapers/' 
said  Mrs.  Metcalfe,  not  unpleasantly,  as 
Frances  disappeared.  "I  have  a  piece  of 
news  for  you." 

Woods,  amused,  bowed  gallantly.  "You 
are   most   kind,'*    he   said. 

The  man  had  a  way  with  him,  Mrs.  Met- 
calfe noted,  but  was  unconscious  of  any 
intended  sarcasm.  "Miss  Cunningham  is 
engaged  to  your  cousin  Gilbert,"  she  said, 
getting  his  face  in  the  light  as  much  as 
possible. 

"I  had  heard  a  rumor  to  that  eflPect," 
said  Woods.  "It  is  true  then  .^"  The  man 
had  a  presence,  too,  she  admitted  grudgingly. 

"At  least  she  soon  will  be,"  the  lady  added, 
smiling.  "But  don't  put  it  in  the  paper 
till  I  ask  you  to." 

The  young  man  said  he  was  honored  with 
her  confidence. 

[64] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


"Do  not  forget/'  Mrs.  Metcalfe  called 
after  him,  significantly,  as  he  started  off 
with  her  niece. 

"  I  am  only  here  for  news  —  news  I  can 
put  in  the  paper,"  he  called  back  laugh- 
ingly, as  he  disappeared  under  the  trees  with 
Frances. 


[65] 


IV 

Unknown  to  Woods,  three  other  news- 
paper men  had  come  up  on  a  later  train  and 
were  entering  the  estate  on  one  side  as  he 
was  descending  the  other  with  Frances. 
This  would  spoil  his  "beat"  provided  that 
the  news  was  obtained  at  all. 

That  was  hardly  the  way  Mrs.  Metcalfe 
regarded  the  matter.  She  looked  upon 
them  simply  as  a  nuisance.  But  she  had 
been  associated  with  public  life  long  enough 
to  know  that  they  were  a  necessary  nuisance, 
and  received  them  with  the  smiling  courtesy 
of  those  who  are  accustomed  to  the  impor- 
tance of  being  at  the  source  of  news.  Even 
the  shabbiest  reporters  note  the  difference 
in  attitude,  and  perhaps  smile  in  their  shiny 
sleeves  at  the  display  various  men  and  women 
make  of  familiar  human  traits. 
[  66  j 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


She  told  them  that  it  would  be  useless 
to  wait,  but  made  them  free  to  do  so  if  they 
preferred.  They  explained  that  they  could 
not  leave  until  the  return  train  at  any  rate, 
and  expressed  a  desire  to  wait  in  the  garden 
where  they  might  smoke.  Mrs.  Metcalfe 
not  only  gave  this  permission,  but  sent  a 
footman  out  with  some  of  the  general^s  ex- 
cellent cigars. 

"The  boat-landing  is  out  this  way  some 
place,"  said  Holbein,  the  oldest  of  the  three, 
middle-aged,  whiskered,  and  spectacled,  a 
hard  worker,  a  reliable  political  reporter. 

"You  mean,  catch  him  on  the  way  back  .?'* 
asked  one  of  the  other  two,  a  well-bred  young- 
ster, with  a  responsive,  intellectual  face  and 
a  few  still  cherished  ideals  about  the  sacred 
opportunities  of  his  recently  adopted  call- 
ing which  he  was  inclined  to  term  "Jour- 
nalism." 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  older  man,  impatiently, 
"if  there's   time."     And    he   looked    at   his 

[67] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


watch,  wearily.  He  had  hoped  to  spend 
this  night  under  his  own  roof  in  Brooklyn, 
but  in  his  profession  it  was  hard  to  tell,  when 
donning  one's  clothes  in  the  morning,  just 
where  one  would  be  when  the  opportunity 
came  for  taking  them  off  again. 

"Time  enough,  I  guess,  for  all  we'll  get 
out  of  old  man  Cunningham."  This  in 
a  loud,  lazy  voice  from  Stump,  the  last  mem- 
ber of  the  trio  to  come  down  the  steps  —  a 
boozy,  shabby  one,  who  might  be  either 
young  or  old,  in  the  frayed  frock  coat 
he  wore  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and 
night. 

"My  paper,"  said  the  youngster,  some- 
what amused  with  his  mission,  "wants  a 
humorous  story  —  a  lot  of  color  about  Jerry 
McCarter  sticking  his  napkin  under  his 
chin,  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"You  can  fake  all  that,"  said  the  boozy 
one,  sitting  down  luxuriously  and  elevating 
his  feet  to  the  green  tub  of  a  bay  tree.  "  But 
[68] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


the  real  reason  of  this  soiree  — "  He  shook 
his  head  and  puffed  appreciatively  on  one 
of  the  general's  cigars  to  show  he  did  not 
propose  to  be  broken-hearted  about  it. 

"A  burnt  child  dreads  the  fire/'  remarked 
the  authoritative  whiskered  man.  "If  it 
hadn't  been  for  a  newspaper  man,  General 
Cunningham  might  be  sitting  in  the  White 
House  to-day." 

"Say,"  put  in  Stump,  more  fond  of  gossip 
than  of  work,  "  did  I  tell  you  I  saw  the  man 
who  faked  that  same  famous  interview  on 
the  Trust  question  —  on  the  train,  coming 
up  .?     What  became  of  him  .?" 

"That  man  Lascelles  ?"  asked  the  cub 
reporter.  His  tone  showed  the  interest  called 
forth  by  a  character  well  known  in  his  pro- 
fession, and  the  contempt  for  a  person  who 
had  proved  a  disgrace  to  it. 

Holbein,  the  dean  of  the  group,  shook  his 
head  wisely.  "  Harry  Lascelles  wouldn't  dare 
show  his  face  here." 

[  69  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"Good  evening,  gentlemen,"  said  Las- 
celles,  coming  out  of  the  door.  He  was  a 
big,  florid  man  with  an  oily  black  mustache 
and  an  oily  manner,  but  very  keen  black 
eyes  which,  when  he  talked,  shifted  continu- 
ously from  one  to  the  other  of  those  of  the 
person's  addressed.  Great  things  had  been 
predicted  of  him  once  and  some  of  them  had 
been  fulfilled,  but  his  chief  celebrity  was 
in  fields  not  predicted,  and  he  was  now  a 
worse  wreck,  morally,  than  the  boozy  mem- 
ber of  the  group  he  was  now  approaching. 
He  had  begun  life  as  an  artist  in  Paris,  be- 
came an  illustrator  for  one  of  the  lesser- 
known  of  the  many  Parisian  periodicals  of 
frank  utterance  and  un-Puritanical  pictures. 
Later  he  did  some  of  the  frank  writing; 
not  wisely  but  too  well,  according  to  his  own 
story  —  according  to  some  of  the  Paris  cor- 
respondents it  was  a  case  of  holding  out  for 
too  high  a  price  from  the  young  gentleman  of 
title  he  attacked.     This,  the  deadliest  charge 

[70] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


that  can  be  made  against  a  newspaper  man, 
was  never  proved,  merely  hinted  at  vaguely. 
Whatever  had  been  his  indiscretion,  he  did 
not  live  in  America  of  his  own  preference, 
judging  from  his  freely  expressed  opinions 
of  everything  in  it  from  art  and  women  to 
cigarettes    and    writing    paper. 

Lascelles  was  followed  by  another,  a  harm- 
less young  man  named  Munson,  who  had 
nice  eyes  and  a  weak  mouth. 

"We  were  just  saying,"  remarked  Hol- 
bein, pleasantly  enough,  nodding  coldly, 
like  the  others,  "that  we  didn't  think  you'd 
care  to  show  your  face  to  Secretary  Cun- 
ningham." 

"I  don't,"  returned  Lascelles.  "Hence 
my  understudy.  Do  you  fellows  know 
Munson?" 

The  others  nodded  at  young  Munson. 
"Another  innocent  victim,"  thought  steady 
old  Holbein,  "to  be  corrupted  down  there 
in  their  fake  foundry." 

[71] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"Where  are  the  rest?"  asked  Lascelles, 
looking    about. 

"Ours  seem  to  be  the  only  papers  to  get 
the  tip,"  Holbein  replied.  "Somebody, 
though,  had  already  fixed  the  operator  at 
the  junction  when  we  got  there." 

Lascelles  continued  to  look  about  him, 
sniffing  contemptuously  at  the  self-conscious 
newness  of  American  formal  gardens.  "I 
thought  Billy  Woods  might  be  'among  those 
present.'" 

Of  late  it  had  been  noticed  on  Park  Row 
that  Lascelles  had  been  making  assiduous 
efforts  to  renew  an  old  friendship  with  Billy 
Woods  which  had  lapsed  in  recent  years. 
"Understand  your  office  has  been  trying 
once  more  to  inveigle  Billy  into  joining  your 
staff,"   remarked   Holbein  to  Lascelles. 

"Woods  is  a  fool,"  replied  Lascelles. 
"We  offered  him  a  guarantee  bigger  than 
the  salary  of  most  managing  editors." 

"And   he  told  you,"  laughed  Stump,  "to 

[72] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


give  your  people  his  compliments  and  there 
wasn't  enough  money  in  New  York  to  make 
him  take  assignments  from  them." 

Lascelles  joined  in  the  laughter  which 
followed,  but  added,  "Oh,  give  him  time. 
Give  him  time.  I  once  had  that  pose  my- 
self, when  I  was  on  the  same  staff  with 
Billy."  He  pronounced  it  "Bee-lee,"  though 
for  the  most  part  he  spoke  Manhattanese. 

"I  always  understood,"  put  in  the  cub 
inquiringly,  "that  the  real  reason  Woods 
never  took  any  offers  to  go  to  any  other  paper 
was  because  it  would  involve  overhauling 
the  drawers  of  his  desk." 

The  others  smiled  reflectively.  There  were 
many  stories  about  Woods  along  Park  Row. 
"All  the  same,  he  may  have  to,"  said  the 
authoritative  Holbein,  "if  he  doesn't  take 
a  brace." 

"Booze  again.?"  inquired  Stump,  with 
more  interest  than  he  had  previously  mani- 
fested.    It  was  from  a  fellow-feeling. 

[73] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


"No.  That's  the  odd  thing  about  it," 
answered  Holbein.  "Cut  whiskey  out  en- 
tirely. But  his  absent-mindedness  —  been 
growing  on  him  lately.  The  boys  tell  me 
that  he  has  a  way  of  disappearing  for  days 
at  a  time,  nobody  knows  where;  then  turns 
up  at  the  office  again  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened; takes  off  his  coat,  sits  down  at  his 
desk  and  waits  for  his  assignment,  know- 
ing perfectly  well  that  he'll  get  the  story  of 
the  day." 

"Remember  that  time  they  sent  him  to 
cover  that  big  boiler  explosion  down  the 
Bay  ?  Billy  didn't  show  up  for  a  week. 
Meanwhile  a  good  murder  in  the  Bronx  and 
the  report  of  the  Superintendent  of  Insurance 
had  come  out  and  everybody  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  boiler  explosion.  But  Woods 
stalked  up  to  the  desk,  looking  intense  and 
important  and  said  solemnly,  *Ten  men 
killed  in  that  boiler  explosion,  Mr.  Stone.'" 

"Yes.     They   told    him   then,   that   if  he 

[74] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


took  another  self-assigned  vacation,  he  could 
keep  it." 

"That  was  two  years  ago  and  —  he's  still 
there,  I  notice." 

"But  that  was  two  years  nearer  his  first 
offence." 

"  Remember  that  time  they  sent  him  down 
to  the  Cunard  Line  docks  to  get  an  inter- 
view with  Secretary  Cunningham  about  the 
chances  of  war  ^  Billy  simply  waited  around 
until  the  other  boys  all  fell  down  as  usual, 
then  quietly  sauntered  over  and  made  the 
old  fox  open  up  somehow,  just  before  the 
steamer  started,  and  got  the  Secretary  and 
himself  so  interested  that  he  was  gliding 
down  the  Bay  before  he  knew  it." 

"Yes,  but  he  got  off  with  the  pilot,  sig- 
nalled to  a  passing  tug,  and  got  his  story  in 
just  when  they  were  beginning  to  give  him 
up.  It  scooped  the  whole  country  and  all 
the  foreign  correspondents  cabled  quotations 
from  it." 

[75] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"His  absent-mindedness  is  not  working 
just  that  way  nowadays,"  said  Holbein. 
"Last  week  they  handed  him  out  an  ulti- 
matum." 

The  others  were  of  the  opinion  that  this 
was  the  usual  bluff.  "There  is  only  one 
Billy  Woods,"  said  the  boozy  Stump,  "and 
only  one  Eugene  Stump,  but  plenty  of  news- 
papers that  want  us  geniuses  —  so  we're 
safe  as  long  as  we  are  on  deck  till  the  paper 
goes  to  press."  Stump  had  never  remained 
for  three  successive  months  on  one  staff  in 
all  his  turbulent  newspaper  career. 

"I  got  that  straight  from  their  managing 
editor,"  said  Holbein,  honestly.  "They  don't 
propose  to  put  up  with  it,  even  from  Woods. 
Plays  the  devil  with  the  morale  of  the  staff 
and  all  that." 

The  voices  of  the  general's  launch  party 
were  heard  coming  up  the  allee,  still  voluble 
but  not  so  boisterous.  The  young  reporter 
jumped  up  eagerly.     The  others  arose  with 

[76] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


more  or  less  interest.  Lascelles  kept  out 
of  sight  in  the  shrubbery. 

It  appeared  that  the  launch  had  broken 
down.  "Ah,  home  at '  last,"  the  general 
was  saying.  "Have  you  all  survived  the 
long  walk  ?"  he  inquired  solicitously. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  general,"  replied 
Shayne.     "Accidents     will     happen." 

"GilHe,  old  chap,"  Jerry  McCarter  had 
his  arm  on  the  shoulder  of  young  Town- 
send,  "between  you  and  I,  the  walk  was 
what  we  were  needin'." 

"That  type  of  motor  boat  —  always  break- 
ing down,"  said  Gilbert,  half  to  himself. 
"I  warned  the  general  against  that  sort. 
But  he  never  takes  my  advice."  Gilbert 
took  a  final  look  at  the  strange  company 
and  fled,  with  a  feeling  of  relief,  into  the 
house  to  find  Frances. 

Meanwhile  the  reporters,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Lascelles,  who  had  remained  in  the 
shadow    of   the    shrubbery,    had    made    an 

[77] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


advance  upon  the  general  in  good  order, 
and  had  been  repulsed  —  but  not  yet  routed. 

"Not  one  word,  gentlemen,"  his  voice 
rose    above    the    others. 

"But  at  least,"  temporized  Holbein,  "may 
we  not  take  the  liberty  of   inquiring " 

"Not  one  word,"  repeated  the  old  gentle- 
man, smiling  good-naturedly,  and  straight- 
way began  to  talk  copiously  about  the  pros- 
pects of  the  political  situation  in  New  York 
and  the  possibility  of  reconciling  the  two 
factions  —  views  that  would  make  interesting 
reading  if  expressed  by  him  some  months 
hence,  but  hardly  worth  a  line  to-day. 

The  young  reporter,  keen  for  humor, 
had  approached  Jerry  McCarter  and  some 
of  the  other  Tammanyites,  but  he  was  too 
young  at  the  business  to  know  how  to  make 
them  open  their  mouths,  and  so  they  only 
shook  their  heads  and  referred  him  back  to 
the  general,  who  had  exacted  their  promise 
to  say  nothing. 

[78] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


Two  members  of  the  party,  Shayne  and 
Nordheimer,  with  the  pretext  of  escaping 
the  reporters,  separated  themselves  from 
the  general  and  the  others  on  the  terrace, 
and  stepped  down  into  the  garden,  strolling 
lazily  until  well  out  of  sight.  Then  they 
began  to  talk  eagerly,  for  it  was  the  first 
chance  they  had  found  since  the  important 
events  of  the  afternoon. 

"We've  got  to  look  out  for  the  damned 
newspapers,"  said  Nordheimer,  heavily. 

"It's  such  a  little  thing,"  said  Shayne. 
"They'll  never  discover  it."  He  took  a 
document  out  of  his  pocket  and  unfolded 
it  as  if  to  point  out  a  passage,  by  the  dim 
light    from    the    windows. 

"What  makes  you  think  the  general 
won't  miss  it?"  asked  Nordheimer  nerv- 
ously. 

"Bah!  The  old  man  is  no  proof-reader," 
replied  Shayne. 

"Look  out!"  whispered  Nordheimer. 

[79] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"There's  another  of  them."  Lascelles  was 
also  strolling  in  the  garden. 

"Yes,"  said  Shayne,  in  a  little  louder 
tone  as  he  quietly  pocketed  the  document 
again,  "our  venerable  leader  is  quite  right 
in  this  matter.  The  newspapers  should 
not  be  allowed  to  make  a  premature  an- 
nouncement." On  the  terrace  the  gen- 
eral was  saying,  "All  to  be  made  public 
in  due  season,  gentlemen,"  and  smiling 
good-temperedly. 

Shayne  and  Nordheimer,  carelessly  turn- 
ing, sauntered  along  the  path  is  if  to  take 
a  view  of  the  moonlight  from  the  pergola. 
Lascelles,  pretending  to  be  oblivious,  watched 
their  movements  with  interest.  He  had 
heard  enough  to  want  to  hear  more. 

"Sure  this  is  the  final  version  of  the 
bill?"  asked  Nordheimer  in  a  more  careful 
tone  as  soon  as  they  were  safely  out  of  ear- 
shot. 

"The    general's    secretary    just    finished 

[80] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


copying  it  from  the  original  draft  in  the  old 
man's    handwriting. " 

"And  all  we've  got  to  do,  then,  is  to  get 
rid  of  this  comma?" 

"Simply  leave  it  out  of  the  printed  copy 
of  the  bill  to  be  presented  at  Albany"  — 
Shayne  nodded  —  "  and  then  —  well,  you  see 
the  power  that  section  puts  in  our  hands." 

"It  makes  no  difference  in  the  sense  as 
you  read  it,"  said  Nordheimer. 

"That's  the  beauty  of  it,"  returned 
Shayne.  "Nobody  will  miss  it.  But, 
think  of  the  difference  in  the  legal  signifi- 
cance !  By  the  aid  of  the  perfectly  legiti- 
mate provisions  of  the  old  statute  we'll 
be  able  —  Now  what's  that  fellow  com- 
ing over  this  way  for?"  Lascelles  had 
tried  to  make  a  sortie,  but  was  seen  as  he 
crossed  the  moonlight,  and  heard  nothing  at 
all.  His  sharp  eyes  detected  from  their  man- 
ner that  he  was  discovered,  so  he  straight- 
way made  as  if  he  had  not  observed  them. 
[8i] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"I  know  that  man,"  said  Nordheimer. 
"Look  out  for  him." 

In  order  to  avoid  suspicion,  they  turned 
their  footsteps  back  toward  the  rest  of  the 
party,  where  the  general  was  still  parrying 
and  thrusting  against  four  at  once,  to  his 
amusement  and  their  frankly  expressed 
admiration. 

"Say,"  whispered  Nordheimer,  with  a 
heavy-jowled  grin,  "everybody'U  think  the 
old  man's  mixed  up  in  this,  sure.  He  wrote 
the  bill." 

"Good  enough  for  him,"  commented 
Shayne,  half-aloud.  "Went  into  Tam- 
many to  reform  it,  and  got  reformed  him- 
self, as  usual,  eh  ^  Here  comes  that 
damned  Lascelles  again.  Pretend  we  don't 
see  him,  and  throw  a  bluff."  So  they 
began  to  talk  with  interest  and  amusement 
of  what  a  poor  figure  the  reporters  were 
cutting  with  the  general.  "He's  old,  but 
he    knows    a    thing   or   two,"    said    Shayne. 

[82] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


"That's  right.  You  can't  fool  him," 
chuckled  Nordheimer. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 
Shayne  turned  to  Lascelles  as  if  discover- 
ing him  for  the  first  time. 

"Light,"  requested  Lascelles,  not  uncon- 
scious of  the  symbolism.  Shayne  handed 
him  his  cigar.  Lascelles  lighted  his  ciga- 
rette, returned  thanks  unctuously,  remarked 
on  the  beauty  of  the  evening,  and  passed 
by. 

"Think    he's    on?"    asked    Nordheimer. 

"Got  his  eyes  open,  but  he  hasn't  seen 
anything  yet.  Don't  worry.  We  can  fix 
him."  Shayne  suddenly  stopped  in  his 
tracks,  touched  Nordheimer's  arm  and 
pointed.  "Here's  the  man  who  sent  Mike 
to  Sing  Sing,"  he  remarked. 

Nordheimer  turned  nervously.  There 
in  the  bright  moonlight,  approaching  with 
a  girl  in  white,  was  the  well-known,  some- 
times  feared,    Billy  Woods. 

[83] 


/ 


TowNSEND,  unable  to  find  Frances  in 
the  house,  had  strolled  out  upon  the  terrace 
with  Mrs.  Metcalfe.  "Here  she  comes 
now,"  said  the  latter,  pointing  to  the  same 
pair  Shayne  had  observed  approaching. 

"One  of  them  seems  to  be  interview- 
ing her,''  remarked  Gilbert,  facetiously 
raising  his  eyebrows. 

"Your  cousin,''  said  Mrs.  Metcalfe. 

Gilbert's  eyebrows  went  down  abruptly. 
"Only   a    distant    cousin,  Mrs.    Metcalfe." 

"But  on  the  side  from  which  you  get 
your  wit,  my  dear  Gilbert,  and  your  charm- 
ing manners." 

"May  I   ask  what  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Haven't  you  wit  enough  to  see  the 
charm  of  a  certain  manner?" 

"Dear  me!"  said  Gilbert.  "Frances  has 
wit  enough  to  see  through  it." 

[84] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


"She  is  very  young."  Mrs.  Metcalfe 
gently  pushed  him  forward,  shaking  her 
head  thoughtfully  as  she  watched  him 
saunter  slowly  down  the  steps  to  meet  the 
pair  approaching. 

Woods  seemed  to  be  gazing  adoringly 
at  the  girl  as  they  came  along  with  slow, 
sentimental  steps,  framed  by  the  dark  trees 
on  either  hand.  If  they  had  been  nearer 
Townsend  might  have  observed  that  the 
girl  looked  piqued.  Lascelles  was  near 
and  he  observed  this. 

"I  hope  you  enjoyed  the  moon,"  said 
Frances,  whimsically,  without  looking  at 
him. 

"Beautiful!  Beautiful!"  said  the  man, 
without   removing   his   gaze   from   her   face. 

"But  you  never  once  looked  at  it." 

"I  knew  it  was  up  there,  though,"  he 
said,  nodding  convincingly. 

"And,  accordingly,  you  kept  your  mind 
down  here  —  on  business." 

[  85  ] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


His  face  showed  a  struggle  —  to  keep 
it  down.  "That's  all  Tm  here  for,  you 
know,"  he  said   quietly. 

"I  should  think  I  did!"  she  replied 
dryly.  "You  don't  believe  in  letting  any- 
thing   interfere    with    business,    do    you?" 

But  at  that  moment  Woods  discovered 
her  father  surrounded  by  reporters,  and 
his  manner  changed  from  that  of  a  sen- 
timental lover  to  that  of  a  quick-think- 
ing man  with  something  to  do  in  a  very 
short  time.  "  How  did  they  pass  us  ? 
Must  have  come  by  the  valley  road."  He 
was  talking  with  great  rapidity.  "Mc- 
Carter,  Munger,  Murphy,  but  where  — 
Ah,  see  that!"  He  pointed  out  Shayne 
and  Nordheimer  to  the  girl.  "Heads  to- 
gether, as  usual.  That  pair  will  bear 
watching  —  close  watching,  Miss  Cun- 
ningham." 

The  girl  did  not  Hke  it,  but  she  was  in- 
terested. Gilbert  had  joined  them.  Woods 
[86] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


did  not  notice  it.  Gilbert  ignored  his 
cousin,  but  he  did  not  notice  even  that. 

"Holbein,  poor  old  Stump  —  they  aren't 
making  much  headway,"  he  went  on. 
"Your  father's  favorite  recreation.  Miss 
Cunningham."  And  taking  out  his  watch, 
he  stepped  across  the  intervening  space  to 
join  the  group  on  the  lower  terrace,  mut- 
tering to  himself,  "No  telephone  in  reach; 
nearest  telegraph  office  fourteen  miles 
down  the  line  and  the  train  leaves  in  less 
than   an   hour.     Whew!     Looks   doubtful." 

Frances  watched  him  over  Gilbert's 
shoulder  as  the  latter  eagerly  led  her  away; 
perhaps  too  eagerly,  for  she  made  him 
stop,  saying  that  she  wanted  to  look  on 
and  see  the  fun. 

Gilbert,  wishing  to  humor  her,  said  with 
an  amused,  superior  air  and  condescend- 
ing interest,  "I  always  supposed  they  car- 
ried notebooks.  Didn't  you?"  Gilbert 
did  not  like  his  unregenerate  cousin's  man- 

[87] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


ner,  misunderstood  his  absorption,  and  con- 
sidered it  an  intended  snub.  This  was 
impudent,  to  say  the  least,  in  the  Hght  of 
all  Gilbert  had  done,  or  had  been  willing 
to  do,  for  him.  There  was  a  time,  to  be 
sure,  when  Cousin  William  was  simply 
impossible,  but  Gilbert  had  not  intended 
to  cherish  animosity.  In  fact,  he  had  once 
suggested  getting  him  employment  in  a 
good,  conservative  Wall  Street  firm  —  and 
William  only  laughed  at  the  idea,  which 
did  not  make  the  relations  less  strained. 
Nevertheless,  when  the  harum-scarum 
cousin  returned  from  the  war,  Gilbert  had 
arranged  a  dinner  in  his  honor,  and  the 
war  correspondent  seemed  pleased  to  ac- 
cept. But  a  good  many  things  of  this  sort 
had  been  given  for  him  at  the  time,  at 
home  and  in  England,  and  he  was  just 
then  so  absorbed  in  a  newspaper  contro- 
versy with  a  tactical  expert  that  he  quite 
forgot  all  about  it,  as  he  explained  after- 
[88] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


ward  in  a  penitent  note  —  not  a  very  flat- 
tering explanation,  nor  one  likely  to  help 
the  cause  of  reestablishing  the  cousinly 
relationship. 

Since  then  Gilbert  had  naturally  not 
enjoyed  it,  when  people  asked  with  inter- 
est, "Oh,  are  you  a  cousin  of  W.  P.  Woods, 
the  war  correspondent?"  Moreover,  a  cer- 
tain busybody  had  repeated  Billy's  reply 
when  some  one  asked  if  it  were  true  that 
Gilbert  were  his  cousin:  "Yes,  but  I  can't 
help   that." 

In  short,  Gilbert  disapproved  him,  for- 
gave him,  despised  him,  feared  him,  and 
Cousin   William   seemed   only   oblivious. 

Meanwhile,  the  absorbed  cousin,  wish- 
ing to  avoid  the  appearance  of  haste,  which 
sometimes  proved  fatal,  had  slackened  his 
pace  as  he  drew  near  the  group  on  the  ter- 
race.    They    had    not    yet    observed    him. 

Now,  those  who  used  to  say  that  Woods 
made   men   talk   because   of   his    cleverness 

[89] 


// 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


would  have  thought  that  he  was  studying 
the  old  gentleman,  to  determine  how  to  ap- 
proach him.  Perhaps  he  was,  but  he  did 
not  do  so  consciously.  He  never  planned 
beforehand  what  to  say  or  how  to  say  it. 
It  was  not  done  with  his  head  at  all,  but 
with  his  sympathy,  his  temperament,  a 
sort  of  automatic  adjustment  to  the  require- 
ments of  another's  personality,  as  influ- 
enced by  the  conditions  of  the  moment. 

The  general,  tired  out  with  the  various 
episodes  of  the  evening,  was  finding  his 
favorite  recreation  a  burden.  "No,  gentle- 
men," he  was  saying,  raising  his  hand  in 
exasperation  as  he  began  to  retreat  toward 
the  door.  "I  have  nothing  to  say  about 
that  —  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me  for 
to-night. " 

"That's  final  enough,  fellows,"  remarked 
Woods,  coming  up  the  steps  behind  them; 
"he  doesn't  care  to  talk.  Can't  you  see.?" 
The     others     turned     in     surprise.     "Good 

[90] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


night,  general.  Come  on,  boys."  He 
made  as  if  to  go  and  then  added,  per- 
haps as  an  afterthought,  to  the  general, 
"It's  unfortunate,  from  your  point  of  view, 
sir,"  smiling  quizzically  as  he  spoke,  "that 
you  cannot  spike  the  editorial  guns  as 
effectively  as  you  have  the  news  depart- 
ment. Good  night."  He  bowed  with  the 
deference  due  the  general's  years  and  at- 
tainments. 

"  Eh .?  What  are  the  editorial  writers 
going  to  say?"  asked  the  general,  dropping 
the  hand  he  had  held  out  to  say  good 
night. 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  Woods,  frankly. 
"We  gather  the  news  —  they  comment  on 
it.  But  of  course,  a  man  of  your  experi- 
ence can  see"  —  the  reporter  lowered  his 
voice  — "  that  they  aren't  going  to  let  a 
thing  like  this  go  by  without  having  a  little 
fun  with  it."  He  smiled,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  glanced  over  toward  McCar- 

[91] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


ter  and  the  others  who  had  joined  Shayne. 
This  was  perfectly  true;  the  editorial 
writers  would  undoubtedly  say  something. 
It  was  their  business  to  do  so.  The  gen- 
eral had  not  thought  of  that.  It  was  to 
his  advantage  to  know  it,  although  he  did 
not  see  it  at  once. 

The  general  had  winced  and  now  said 
rather  hotly,  "I  fail  to  see  why  the  news- 
papers should  feel  called  upon  to  com- 
ment upon  a  private  gathering  in  my  own 
house."  Which  made  Gilbert  clap  his 
hands  softly  and  say,  "Hear!  hear!"  nod- 
ding at  Frances. 

"I  think  we  all  appreciate  your  feel- 
ings in  the  matter,  general,"  said  Woods, 
respectfully,  "but  unfortunately  the  pub- 
lic doesn't  look  at  it  in  just  that  way.  The 
goings-in  and  comings-out  of  public  men 
are  matters  of  public  interest.  They 
think  you  belong  to  them,  you  know." 
This  was  followed  by  a  pause,  during  which 

[92] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


Gilbert  said  to  Frances,  "Rather  imperti- 
nent, I   think." 

"I  should  much  prefer,"  replied  the 
former  secretary,  in  a  tone  of  friendly  con- 
fidence to  Woods,  "I  should  greatly  prefer 
no  comment  whatever  as  to  the  object  of 
this  little  party." 

"  If  you  say  so,  we'll  be  glad  to  telegraph 
a  request  to  that  effect,"  said  Woods. 

"Could  you  manage  it?"  asked  the  gen- 
eral, eagerly. 

Woods  seemed  about  to  go  and  try  it; 
the  others  seemed  surprised. 

"That's  a  trap,"  whispered  Gilbert  to 
Frances.     "You'll  see." 

"But  of  course  in  that  case,"  Woods 
replied,  turning  back,  "the  editorials  — 
supposing  they  took  our  suggestion  — 
would  merely  state  without  any  comment 
whatever :  *  General  Cunningham  is  enter- 
taining for  the  week-end  at  Fernleigh,  his 
country-seat  in  the   Berkshires,   Jim  Nord- 

[93] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


heimer,  Jake  Shayne,  Jerry  McCarter  et 
al. '  —  and  let  the  public  make  its  own 
comments. " 

The  general  interrupted  with  a  sign  of 
annoyance.  He  saw  the  point  now.  So 
did  the  other  reporters,  who  were  smiling 
at  one  another.  Woods  did  not  smile. 
He  felt  confident  of  success,  but  as  he  looked 
at  the  perplexed  general,  it  seemed  to  him 
rather  pathetic  that  an  enlightened  leader 
of  civilization  should  be  so  mediaeval  in  his 
attitude  toward  the  proper  function  of  pub- 
licity. It  was  irritating  to  see  how  char- 
latans understood  the  art  of  it,  while  men 
of  this  sort  fought  it  instead  of  employing 
it  to  help  their  purposes.  Of  course,  Woods 
looked  at  the  matter  from  the  point  of  view 
of  an  agent  of  publicity,  but  he  was  sincere 
in  believing  that  a  desire  for  unnecessary 
secrecy,  for  patrician  exclusiveness,  had 
hindered  the  old  gentleman  more  than 
once  in   his   long  career,   in  which   he   had 

[94] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


won  many  of  the  prizes  of  life,  but  still 
considered  himself,  in  his  ripe  old  age,  a 
failure.  The  figure  he  now  presented,  play- 
ing at  being  one  of  the  people,  would  have 
been  entertaining  if  it  were  not  so  gro- 
tesque. In  the  eyes  of  an  observer  like 
Woods,  who  classified  all  men  as  either 
fools  or  knaves,  the  general  was  forced 
into    the    former    category. 

"What  did  I  tell  you!"  Gilbert  was 
whispering  to  Frances.  "A  reporter's 
trick!" 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Woods,"  said  the 
general,  in  his  old-fashioned  manner. 
"Could  you  not  keep  all  mention  of  this 
matter  out  of  the  papers  ?  Come,  now. 
I  would  deem  it " 

"That  is  beyond  our  power,"  inter- 
rupted Woods,  who  saw  there  was  barely 
time  now  to  get  and  to  telegraph  the  story. 
"News  is  news.  We've  received  our  orders 
and  we  have  to  obey  them,  just  as  you  did 

[95] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


in  the  army."  The  general  was  think- 
ing. Woods  snapped  his  watch.  "They 
are  waiting  to  hear  from  us,  sir."  The 
general  was  hesitating.  "Very  well,  sir; 
you  know  best.  Boys,  we  may  as  well 
start   on."     And    again    he   made    as   if  to 

go- 

The  general  was  hurriedly  whispering 
to  certain  of  his  Tammany  colleagues. 
"Inasmuch  as  they  would  publish  some- 
thing in  any  case " 

"But,   general — "   began   Shayne. 

"Otherwise  our  attempt  at  secrecy  might 
be  misconstrued." 

"They  know  you  too  well,  sir,"  said 
Shayne. 

The  general  turned  abruptly  and  called 
to  the  departing  reporters  kindly  to  step 
into  the  library.  The  old  gentleman  now 
called  them  representatives  of  the  press. 
They  did  not  care  what  they  were  called 
as  long  as  they  got  the  story, 

[96] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


Young  Townsend,  with  a  manner  of 
some  importance,  now  stepped  up  to  the 
general  as  the  latter  was  leading  the  way 
into  the  house  with  Woods:  "If  you  will 
take    my    advice " 

"Probably  he  will,  when  he  asks  it," 
Woods  remarked;  and,  stepping  between 
them,  took  the  general's  arm,  saying  to 
the  other  reporters:  "Come  on,  'repre- 
sentatives.' "  And  they  all  filed  into  the 
house,  searching  their  pockets  for  copy  paper 
or  the  backs  of  letters  with  which  to  aid 
their  memory  in  telegraphing  the  story  to 
the  city  offices.  There  would  hardly  be 
time  after  they  reached  the  junction,  to  get 
in  more  than  two  or  three  paragraphs,  but 
a  "big  story"  is  not  necessarily  a  long  one. 


[97] 


VI 

Young  Munson,  the  reporter  who  had 
accompanied  Lascelles,  was  about  to  join 
them,  but  saw  his  colleague  signalling  to 
him  from  the  garden  below,  and  waited 
obediently. 

"But  it's  a  big  story,"  Munson  protested. 

"I've  got  a  bigger  one!"  Lascelles  re- 
lated what  he  had  overheard. 

"What  do  you  make  out  of  it?"  asked 
the  boy,  flattered  at  being  consulted.  He 
was  not  being  consulted. 

"But  I  tell  you  that's  all  I  could  hear: 
'Look  out  for  the  damned  newspapers,' 
says  Nordheimer.  And  Shayne  replies: 
'  It's  such  a  little  thing,  they'll  never  dis- 
cover it.'  And  also:  *  The  old  man's  no 
proof-reader.'  Then  they  got  on  to  me  and 
wouldn't   let    me   within    a    mile    of  them." 

[98] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


"But  you  think  it's  graft?'' 

** Think!     What  are  they  here  for?" 

"  Right  under  the  old  man's  nose !  What 
is  their  game  ?" 

"That's  for  us  to  find  out." 

"Hardest  thing  we  ever  tackled,"  said 
Munson,  feeling  the  importance  of  it. 

"But,  if  we  land  it!"  exclaimed  Las- 
celles,  looking  forward  to  practical  re- 
sults. 

"The  biggest  exclusive  story  published 
this  year,"  exclaimed  the  youngster  enthu- 
siastically. 

With  a  change  of  tone,  Lascelles  re- 
marked, his  arm  on  the  other's  shoulder: 
"  Some  stories,  my  boy,  are  too  big  —  to 
be  published." 

Munson  had  often  heard  of  the  many 
great  inside  stories  such  as  every  news- 
paper office  knows  but  cannot  or  will  not 
publish  for  reasons  of  state  or  for  other 
reasons,    sometimes    from    sheer    kindness, 

[99] 


f 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


which  would  sound  surprising  to  the  pub- 
lic. None  of  these  reasons  seemed  to  apply 
in  this  case.     He  sought  elucidation. 

"Too  valuable,"  said  Lascelles,  laconic- 
ally. 

"How  do  you  mean?*' 

Lascelles  smiled  at  his  ignorance.  "Sell 
that  story  to  the  city  editor  for  twenty  or 
fifty  dollars  at  the  most!"  He  patted  the 
boy's  arm.  "I  would  call  it  better  busi- 
ness to  let  Jake  Shayne  buy  it." 

"I  would  call  that  blackmail,"  said  Mun- 
son,   recoiling. 

"Not  when  it's  worth  twenty  or  fifty 
thousand  dollars,  my  boy." 

"Say,  Lascelles,"  said  Munson,  turn- 
ing away  from  the  other's  basilisk  eyes. 
"I've  done  some  queer  things,  and  our 
sheet  may  be  sensational  and  all  that, 
but  —  we're  honest,   anyway." 

"Where  does  the  dishonesty  come  in?" 
asked  Lascelles.  "They  want  the  money 
[  100  ] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


and  they're  bound  to  get  it  out  of  that  big 
fool  city  down  there  —  if  not  this  way, 
some  other  way.  They  always  do.  Who 
can  prevent  it  ?  We  ^  We  can't  prevent 
it.     We  might  as  well  have  a  slice  of  it." 

"Why  do  you  invite  me  into  the  deal?" 
asked  Munson,  unexpectedly. 

"Simply  because  I  couldn't  work  it 
alone,"  replied   Lascelles,  grinning  frankly. 

"You're  talking  as  if  we  had  the  whole 
grafting  story  pat,"  said  Munson.  "We 
haven't  any  real  evidence  yet." 

"We  may  be  able  to  get  some,  now 
that  your  eyes  are  open,"  returned  Las- 
celles. "Run  along  and  see  what  the 
general's  giving  out."  For  this  was  why 
Munson  had  been  consulted. 

Munson  ran,  as  he  was  told,  in  a  way  to 
make  Lascelles,  watching  him,  believe  that 
he  could  be  persuaded.  In  fact,  Lascelles 
believed  that  anybody  could,  if  the  price 
were    high    enough.       And,    feeling    secure 

[lOl] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


about  this  merely  incidental  obstacle,  he 
paced  the  garden,  puzzling  over  the  mean- 
ing of  what  he  had  heard,  which  he  con- 
sidered valuable  only  as  a  clue  to  the  dis- 
covery of  facts  far  more  valuable.  He 
knew  a  great  deal  about  Shayne  and  Nord- 
heimer,  as  he  did  about  all  of  the  well- 
known  men  in  the  despised  city  of  his  exile. 
He  knew  that  Shayne,  who  had  so  many 
"legitimate"  sources  of  graft,  would  be  one 
of  the  last  to  go  into  a  game  of  this  sort 
unless  the  stakes  were  large  enough  to  make 
it  worth  while.  Therefore  Lascelles's  prob- 
able "commission"  would  be  undoubtedly 
enough  to  make  it  worth  his  own  while. 
He  was  thoroughly  tired  of  the  newspaper 
life,  considered  it  beneath  his  talents,  and 
thought  he  saw  a  chance  here  to  retire  to 
the  boulevards  and  the  life  he  loved  in 
the  only  civilized  city.  The  thing  that 
had  kept  him  away  so  long  had  blown  over 
by  this  time.  Here  was  his  great  chance. 
[102] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


Gilbert  and  Frances,  when  the  "fun" 
was  over  with  the  reporters,  had  strolled 
ofF  to  the  lake  to  look  up  at  the  stars.  At 
least  Gilbert  had  gone  for  that  worthy  pur- 
pose; Frances  went  to  see  what  would 
happen,  and  also  because  she  could  not 
help  being  a  little  sorry  for  him  when  the 
reporters  passed  by  so  jeeringly  on  their 
way  into  the  house.  Gilbert  was  a  pecul- 
iar fellow,  but  he  was  fine-grained  and 
sensitive,  and  she  knew  how  ridicule  hurt 
him,  for  all  his  pretence  at  being  superior 
to  the  vulgar  intrusions  of  the  "sordid 
world." 

He  appreciated  the  delicacy  of  her  word- 
less sympathy  —  he  admired  the  potential 
subtlety  of  the  maturing  girl  —  and  de- 
clared, in  the  moonlight,  that  with  her  it 
was  easy  to  forget  anything  — "  *  Two 
soul  sides,'  "  he  breathed  softly,  "  *one  to 
face  the  world  with  —  one  to  show  a  woman 
when  he  loves  her.'  " 

[103] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"I  seem  to  be  having  a  run  on  Brown- 
ing this  evening,"  she  said  to  herself. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  —  v^hat  did  you 
say?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing  that  you  would  Hke,  I  fear," 
she  laughed.  "  Did  I  interrupt  you  ?  Do 
go  on." 

Gilbert  went  on,  all  the  way  to  the  lake 
and  back,  chiefly  about  his  soul.  Also 
about  hers.  Down  there  (under  the  stars) 
he  called  her  "soul  of  my  soul."  It  was 
not  altogether  an  uninteresting  way  of  do- 
ing it,  but  there  was  too  much  of  it.  So 
it  fell  out  that  on  the  way  back  he  sighed 
and  said:  "After  all,  how  lonely  is  each 
one's  soul." 

"Traid  Fm  not  the  soulful  sort,"  said 
Frances. 

"Why  have  you  changed  toward  me?" 
the  lover  pleaded. 

"All  you  say  about  living  for  others  is 
noble.  But — well,  I  like  men  to  do  things. " 
[104] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


At  this,  Gilbert  drew  himself  up,  not 
boastfully,  but  with  an  injured  air.  "I 
am  a  member  of  the  Committee  on  Art 
and  Literature  at  the  Club.  I  am  a  ves- 
tryman of  the  church,  secretary  of  the 
Good  Government  Club,  Number  Seven, 
founder  and  president  of  the  Townsend 
Free  Ice  Guild,  a  life  member  of  the  Met- 
ropolitan Museum  of  Art,  director  of  the 
United  Charities  Association;  will  soon 
be  made  a  trustee  of  the  hospital  —  they 
always  have  a  representative  of  our  fam- 
ily " 

Frances  interrupted.  "That's  it,  your 
family  —  your  money.  Gilbert,  did  you 
ever  win    anything   by  your  own   efforts .?" 

Gilbert  was  even  more  amused  than  he 
was  disappointed  in  her.  "Surely  you 
would  not  want  me  to  go  down  to  Wall 
Street  and  'hustle'  with  the  vulgar  mob — - 
make  more  money  —  the  absurd  American 
type  of  man!" 

[105] 


THE    DAY-DREAMER 


"Maybe  I'm  an  absurd  American  type 
of  girl,"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh,  I  don't 
care  whether  they  make  money  or  not. 
But  I  Hke  men  to  be  men,  to  dash  into  the 
thick  of  things,  not  to  look  on  from  the 
grandstand  —  to  try  for  something  with 
all  that's  in  them,  forget  everything  else  — 
fight  for  it.  That's  what  men  are  for. 
Oh,  I  wish  I  were  a  man !  I'd  show  you ! 
What  have  you  ever  done .?  Why,  you  — 
you're  a  mere  millionnaire  !" 

"I  have  loved  you  all  my  life.  That's 
about  all,"  he  said  quietly.  And  then 
added,  with  a  sudden  force  that  frightened 
her,  "And  I  will  fight  to  get  you."  There 
seemed  to  be  good  stuff  in  him  when  he 
let  it  loose. 

Frances  liked  this  and  consequently 
laughed  at  him.  "Gilbert,"  she  said,  not 
unkindly,  "all  your  life  you've  had  what- 
ever you  wanted  —  and  with  no  greater 
effort  than  signing  a  check.  Fortunately, 
[  io6  ] 


IN   THE   BERKSHIRES 


you  wanted  innocent  things.  The  gentle 
tastes  you  inherited  from  your  mother  are 
to  be  thanked  for  that  —  not  your  strong 
character,  as  you  think.  What  have  you 
ever  done  to  make  any  fibre  in  you  ?  But 
some  day  you  too,  your  real  character, 
will  have  its  test.  Some  day  you'll  want 
something  you  can't  have  —  want  it  so 
absorbingly,  so  tremendously  that  you  will 
forget  yourself  and  your  subtleties  —  drop 
your  attitudes  and  your  self-consciousness, 
then  your  true  nature  will  loom  up ! " 

"That  day  has  arrived,"  he  cried,  with 
a  quick  step  toward  her.  "I  want  you  as 
I  never  wanted  anything  before !  I  don't 
care  what  you  say  about  me;  it  only  makes 
me  want  you  more.  You  —  why,  you  are 
a  woman;  I  thought  you  were  only  a  girl. 
I  want  you !  Not,  as  I  told  you,  to  help  me 
live  for  others,  but  because  I  cannot  live 
without  you.  I  love  you,  Frank,  and  I  will 
win  you." 

[107] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


The  girl,  recoiling,  part  in  fear  and  part 
in  admiration,  said:  "Now  you  look  like 
the  Sargent  portrait  of  your  father." 

"And  you  look  at  me  as  you  used  to  look 
at  me  when  I  came  home  from  college." 
He  advanced  to  take  her.  She  slipped  away 
from  him.  "I  am  your  mate  and  your 
master,"  he  cried.     "You  know  it." 

"Wait  till  I  come  home  from  Europe," 
she  said. 

"I'm  going  abroad  with  you!"  he  inter- 
jected. 

"No!" 

"Yes!" 

They  stood,  looking  at  each  other.  There 
was  a  compelling  note  in  Gilbert's  voice 
which  affected  her.  She  seemed  about  to 
melt,  but  suddenly  stiffened  at  hearing  the 
voice  of  the  other  approaching,  speaking 
briskly  with  the  ring  of  an  alert  man  suc- 
cessfully busy. 

"A  magnificent  project,  general,"  Woods 
[io8] 


IN  THE  BERKSHIRES 


was  saying.  "And  I  think  you  can  be  as- 
sured of  the  cooperation  of  all  the  news- 
papers —  even  mine." 

Gilbert,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  whisper 
said,  "Yes?" 

The  answer  was  a  sighing  "No." 
Gilbert  caught  his  breath  and  turning 
saw  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  cousin, 
the  reporter,  who,  with  the  general  and  the 
rest  of  those  who  had  been  in  the  Hbrary, 
now  came  down  the  steps  again,  evidently 
intending  to  take  his  short  cut  to  the  station. 


[109] 


VII 

Frances,  as  she  passed  by  to  enter  the 
house,  slackened  her  steps.  She  would  not 
see  the  man  she  had  called  "Billy"  again 
before  she  sailed,  and  this  thought  had  the 
better  of  her  pride.  "Aren't  you  going  to 
say  good-by  to  me  .^"  She  asked  it  jocularly, 
but  with  a  note  of  wistfulness.  "I  may 
not   see   you   again   before " 

"Oh,"  he  said,  bowing  reverently,  but 
interrupting  her  all  the  same,  "Good  night. 
Miss  Cunningham,  good  night."  Then, 
knowing  that  there  was  not  a  moment  to 
lose,  he  unwillingly  wrenched  himself  away 
without  even  waiting  for  her  to  explain  that 
she  was  bidding  him  good-by  and  not 
good  night.  He  turned  his  deep-set  eyes 
upon  the  general  once  more,  taking  out  his 
watch  as  he  said  in  brisk,  businessHke  tones, 
[no] 


IN   THE   BERKSHIRES 


"But   there's   just   one    more    point,    sir,    if 
there's  time." 

"All  right,"  said  the  general,  youthfully. 
"Only  three  minutes  by  the  short  cut." 

Plunging  into  business  again,  with  the^ 
other  reporters  gathering  about.  Woods  did 
not  even  notice  the  hurt  shrug  of  the  girl's 
shoulders  as  she  joined  Gilbert  by  the  foun- 
tain, nor  observe  her  leaning  forward  to 
whisper,  nor  hear  his  cousin  exclaim  aloud, 
with  delight,  "Then  it's  settled!  You  mean 
it  ?"  nor  Frances's  reply,  "I  mean  only  what 
I  say.     Sail  with  us  if  father  agrees." 

"That's  all  I  ask,"  murmured  Gilbert. 
"All  I  need,"  he  added  to  himself,  turning 
toward  her  father.  "General,  oh,  general," 
he  began.  But  the  old  gentleman  was  still 
occupied  in  conversation  and  gesticulation 
with  Woods,  and  waved  the  impatient  Gil- 
bert aside  with  .the  gesture  of  one  saying, 
"Business  first,  my  lad." 

Frances,    watching    this    pantomime,    felt 

[III] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


her  eyes  waver  back  and  forth  from  the 
mere  millionnaire  to  the  mere  reporter,  whose 
eyes  did  not  waver  at  all. 

Shayne,  meanwhile,  was  holding  forth  to 
the  other  reporters  from  the  top  of  the  steps 
in  his  well-known  Fourth  of  July  manner. 
It  was  part  of  the  toast  he  had  offered  at  the 
banquet.  "  But  our  venerable  leader,  by  his 
eloquence,  his  calm  reasoning,  his  compel- 
ling example  of  disinterested  citizenship, 
dispeUing  our  doubts,  soon  brought  us  to 
his  broad  view  of  this  important  question." 
He  went  on  while  the  representatives  of  the 
press  smiled  patiently. 

Two  of  the  reporters,  meanwhile,  had 
other  thoughts  to  occupy  them.  Munson 
had  not  delayed  a  moment  in  finding  Las- 
celles  at  the  close  of  the  statement  given 
out  with  the  aid  of  the  general's  secretary  in 
the  library.  Lascelles  had  ejaculated,  "  Enor- 
mously valuable  real  estate  —  all  along  the 
water  fronts  —  all   sorts   of  jobs   in   that ! " 

[112] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


Just  now  he  was  saying,  no  longer  so  excited, 
but  much  more  in  earnest,  "But  I  tell  you, 
whatever  it  is,  we  can't  do  anything  without 
General  Cunningham's  end  of  it.  WeVe 
got  to  work  him  somehow  for  inside  informa- 
tion." 

"But  he  talked  to  you,"  returned  young 
Munson  with  an  impudent  grin,  "once  too 
often." 

"And  you,"  returned  Lascelles,  with  a 
snifF  of  contempt,  "you  don't  know  enough. 
Neither  do  I,  for  that  matter."  He  clapped 
his  hand  on  the  youngster's  shoulder  after 
the  manner  of  the  pawing  kind,  and  flashed 
out,  "There's  only  one  man  in  all  New  York 
who  could  probe  to  the  bottom  of  this  thing 
And  with  the  hand  still  on  Munson's  shoulder, 
he  turned  him  around  to  get  a  view  of  Woods, 
with  whom  the  old  gentleman  continued 
talking  in  a  friendly,  confidential  manner. 

Munson  shook  his  head  precociously. 
"We've   bribed    bishops    and   college   presi- 

[113] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


dents  to  write  for  our  paper,  but  we  can't 
get  Billy  Woods." 

"  But  if  we  got  him  fired  from  his  own ! " 
returned  Lascelles,  thinking  quickly. 

"Fire   the   great    Billy   Woods!" 

"You  heard  what  Holbein  said.  Do  some 
thinking.  To-night,  with  this  big  piece  of 
news !  Suppose  he  were  absent-minded 
to-night!" 

"But  he  never  drinks  until  the  paper  goes 
to  press  —  you  know  that,"  returned  Mun- 
son,  getting  excited.  "And  he's  quit  drink- 
ing." 

"It's  worth  trying,  anyway,"  returned 
Lascelles,  approaching  the  terrace  as  if 
about  to  try  it  forthwith,  but  still  keep- 
ing in  the  shadow.     Munson  followed. 

They  heard  Shayne  concluding  a  sort  of 
peroration  as  the  newspaper  men  were  turn- 
ing to  go.  "And  so  I  say,  *  Three  cheers 
for  our  venerable  leader,  our  generous  host, 
our    great-hearted    friend!'" 

[114] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


Woods,  folding  up  his  notes,  caught  the 
end  of  this,  and  put  in  quietly,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  other  newspaper  men,  "Don't  worry. 
You'll  get  into  the  papers,  Major  Shayne. 
You  always  do.  Come  on,  fellows.  It's 
the  last  train  out  to-night.  Best  wishes  for 
the  bill,  sir,"  he  called  back  to  the  general, 
and  started  off  at  a  brisk  pace. 

Frances,  about  to  follow  Gilbert  and  her 
father  into  the  house,  had  lingered  to  watch 
this  strange  manner  of  man,  whom  in  all 
probability  she  would  not  see  again  for  a 
year.  She  had  involuntarily  started  down 
the  steps,  but  stopped  abruptly  at  discover- 
ing that  he  had  not  even  noticed  her  in  his 
intense  solicitude  for  his  business.  He  did 
not  know  that  she  had  waited,  and  he  did 
not  know  that  she  was  going  to  Europe. 

Lascelles  knew  and  saw  most  of  these 
things  and  guessed  the  rest.  "  Skip  out  with 
your  story,"  he  whispered  to  Munson.  "I 
know    how    to    fix    him!"     Woods,  having 

["5] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


gained  his  object,  had  let  go  the  tension 
enough  to  want  a  cigarette.  He  was  groping 
for  one  as  Lascelles  glided  out  of  the  shadow 
with  cigarette-case  open. 

"Thanks,"  said  Woods,  too  preoccupied 
to  recall  that  he  had  not  seen  Lascelles 
before. 

"Say,  old  man,"  remarked  the  latter, 
lazily,  as  Woods  paused  to  strike  a  match, 
"incidentally  I  stumbled  upon  a  ripping 
bit  of  society  news  out  here." 

Woods  puffed,  looked  at  the  cigarette, 
handed  back  the  box,  and  started  on. 
"Haven't  fallen  low  enough  to  be  a  society 
reporter,  have  you,  Harry?"  He  smiled, 
chaffing  fraternally. 

Lascelles  took  his  arm.  "But  this  will 
interest  you." 

"Bah!"     Woods   sneered,  walking  faster 

than    Lascelles    seemed    inclined    to    walk. 

"We  don't  clutter  up  our  columns  with  such 

rot."     And  subconsciously  feehng  the  delay, 

[ii6] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


he  took  out  his  watch  as  if  to  look  at  it  by 
the  Hght  of  his   cigarette. 

Before  he  had  a  chance  to  do  so,  Lascelles 
whispered,  "Miss  Cunningham's  engage- 
ment to  Townsend  is  off." 

The  watch  remained  in  Billy's  left  hand, 
as  he  exclaimed,  "What!  How  do  you 
know.?" 

"I  saw  it  done." 

"Where?     When?" 

"Here,  while  you  were  in  there." 

Woods  involuntarily,  or  perhaps  because 
Lascelles  had  him  by  the  arm,  looked  back 
toward  the  house.  There  she  stood,  alone 
upon  the  terrace,  her  white  frock  gleaming, 
though  the  moon  was  now  behind  the  dis- 
tant trees.  The  watch  lay  ticking  unnoticed 
in  his  hand. 

She  dimly  descried  the  movement  of  the 
taller  of  the  two  figures  and  waved  her 
hand. 

"Good-by,"   she    called,   and   impulsively 

["7] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


came  down  the  steps.  He,  with  the  same 
impulse,  —  an  impulse  older  than  the  race,  — 
turned  back  toward  her.  She  was  saying 
as  they  approached  each  other  in  the  semi- 
darkness,  "I  don't  suppose  I  shall  see  you 
again  for  —  oh,  I  don't  know  how  long, 
so  — "  and  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

The  man  took  it,  still  holding  his  watch 
in  the  other  hand ;  half  of  his  mind  was  on 
the  train;  he  could  catch  it  by  running. 
"But  I'm  not  going  across,  you  know,"  he 
whispered  hurriedly.  "Forgotten  that  al- 
ready?" 

"But  we  are,"  began  the  girl,  and  was 
interrupted  by  his  quick-breathed    "You!" 

" — as  I  tried  to  tell  you  on  our  walk" 
—  she  was  stepping  back  from  him  now  — 
"only  you " 

"  Why,  the  reason  I  could  not  go  —  don't 
you  know?  Don't  you  know!"  He  kept 
advancing,  she  retreating  as  they  spoke 
quickly. 

[ii8] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


" — only  you  paid  absolutely  no  attention 
to  me." 

"I  did  not  dare  to,"  he  whispered,  trem- 
bling palpably.  "You  know  why.  For  how 
long.?     How  long  shall  you  be  gone?" 

"About  a  year." 

"A  year!"  The  watch  had  found  its 
way  back  into  its  accustomed  resting-place 
by  the  same  subconscious  cerebration  that 
had  brought  it  forth.  At  the  same  moment 
the  voices  of  young  Townsend  and  the  gen- 
eral came  from  within  the  house :  "  Frank  ! 
Oh,  Frank !  Frances,  where  are  you .?" 
Lascelles  heard  the  general's  well-known 
voice  and  fled,  gloating.  Woods  heard 
nothing  but  the  voice  of  the  girl  he  loved. 

"When    do   you    sail?" 

"  In  two  weeks  —  on  the   Cedric" 

"Why,  that  was  my  steamer." 

Again  the  voices  came  out  to  them,  un- 
heeded, though  nearer  now:  "Oh,  Frank, 
where  are  you  ?" 

[119] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"I  know,"  she  said  to  him,  nodding  vig- 
orously. "Wouldn't  it  have  been  jolly? 
Good-by,  Billy, "  and  reaching  the  steps, 
held  out  her  hand  again. 

"Jolly?"  he  whispered,  frantic.  "Why, 
I  love  you  ! " 

In  panic  she  sought  to  gain  the  steps,  but 
found  herself  swung  about,  her  hand  im- 
prisoned by  both  of  his.  By  the  glare  of  the 
open  door  shining  down  upon  his  face  she 
saw,  with  joyous  alarm,  the  immemorial 
light  in  his  dark  eyes.  Then  Gilbert's 
shadow  fell  upon  them  from  the  hall. 

"Oh,  here  she  is,  sir,"  he  called  behind 
him,  seeing  only  the  girl's  back  and  his 
cousin's  face  as  Woods  released  the  hand. 

"What's  this  I  hear?"  laughed  the  gen- 
eral, approaching.  He  put  a  hand  on  Gil- 
bert's shoulder  and  beamed  down  upon  his 
daughter.  "Gilbert  says  you  want  him  to 
cross  with  us  —  if  /  am  willing."  He 
stopped  abruptly  at  discovering  the  reporter. 

[I20] 


IN  THE   BERKSHIRES 


Both  men  in  the  doorway  were  now  looking 
down  upon  him. 

He,  looking  back,  suddenly  heard,  as  they 
all  did,  the  whistle  of  the  train  approaching 
the  station.  His  knees  stiffened  as  if 
paralyzed. 

"Cousin  William,"  said  Gilbert,  "you 
seem  to  be  too  late." 

Woods  had  regained  his  wits  and  his  legs. 
He  was  well  down  the  allee  before  either  of 
the  men  shouted  to  him  to  stop;  the  train 
was  out  of  the  question.  Frances  kept 
calling  to  him :    "  Billy  —  oh,  Billy  !" 

Without  answer  he  disappeared  in  the  dis- 
tant dark,  and  her  voice  was  thrown  back 
to  her  from  the  silent  trees. 


[121] 


PART    II 

IN  PARK   ROW 


TT  was  now  almost  two  weeks  since  the 
mysterious  disappearance  of  the  erratic 
Billy  Woods,  and  his  fellow-members  of  the 
staff  were  talking  about  it. 

It  was  the  noon  hour,  and  they  were 
gathering  in  the  dingy  old  city  office  for  the 
beginning  of  their  day's  work  —  a  long, 
loftlike  place,  with  tiers  of  writing  tables, 
like  a  schoolroom,  and  smelling  of  ink  and 
paste  like  nothing  in  the  world  but  a  news- 
paper office. 

Some  of  the  late  arrivals  swinging  in 
through  the  low  gate,  which  barred  stran- 
gers, were  yawning  as  if  just  out  of  bed, 
[122] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


and  sat  down  morosely  to  wait  for  assign- 
ments before  getting  breakfast.  Others,  tak- 
ing copies  of  that  morning's  fresh-smelHng 
product,  were  chpping  out  their  space  and 
pasting  it,  not  without  a  pleasurable  repe- 
rusal,  on  their  "string,"  to  be  turned  into  the 
cashier's  office  on  Friday. 

All,  however,  first  glanced  in  the  direction 
of  Woods's  famiHar  place,  which  had  gradu- 
ally become  heaped  up  with  an  accumula- 
tion of  dust  and  unopened  mail.  Tommy, 
the  favorite  office  boy,  always  brought  the 
letters  to  Woods's  desk,  because  Billy  always 
forgot  to  look  in  his  mail-box  near  the  door. 
When  Billy  first  joined  the  staff  as  the  young- 
est reporter,  there  had  not  been  boxes  enough 
to  go  around,  hence  the  habit.  But  not  even 
Tommy  was  permitted  to  touch  anything 
else  there  except  the  inkwell,  and  Tommy 
was  the  only  one  granted  the  proud  privi- 
lege of  filling  it. 

Most  of  those  in  the  room  were  surpris- 
[  123  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


ingly  young  to  be  the  authors  of  such  cyn- 
ically worldly-wise  chapters  of  New  York's 
history  as  diurnally  appeared  in  the  closely 
printed  pages  of  the  sprightly  paper  of  which 
they  were  all  so  proud.  A  few  only  looked 
old  enough  for  what  their  work  connoted, 
and  their  agedness  seemed  premature.  In 
countenance  and  bearing,  however,  most  of 
these  older  members  of  the  staff  suggested 
a  heavy  obliviousness  to  the  manifold  ac- 
tivities of  the  teeming  town  they  knew  so 
well.  This  contrast  to  the  alert  faces  of 
the  wide-awake  youngsters  about  them  was 
still  more  incongruous  with  the  light  touch 
and  flashing  wit  of  what  these  elder  men 
wrote. 

The  latter  were  inclined  to  slovenliness  in 
dress  and  movement  —  the  tendency,  it  is 
said,  in  writers  of  all  kinds,  for  some  reason 
never  explained.  Among  the  former,  how- 
ever, were  more  than  one  dapper  young 
person,  wearing  the  extreme  variety  of  the 

[124] 


IN   PARK   ROW 


prevalent  collar,  or  sporting  an  insistent 
waistcoat. 

These  were  the  two  extremes,  for  there 
are  men  of  all  sorts,  both  outwardly  and 
inwardly,  in  this  business  of  news  gathering; 
as  many  different  sorts  as  there  are  in  law 
or  business,  from  the  shyster,  at  the  magis- 
trate's court,  who  shares  the  earnings  of 
unfortunate  women  for  securing  their  release 
by  his  pull,  to  the  famous  corporation  law- 
yer down  in  Wall  Street,  who  prostitutes 
his  talents  to  get  his  share  of  tainted  money 
for  releasing  his  criminally  respectable  clients 
from  inconvenient  injunctions  which  seek 
to  deprive  them  of  the  rights  and  privileges 
due  a  people  born  free  and  equal. 

The  rank  and  file  of  these  reporters, 
however,  were  of  neither  extreme,  being 
merely  honest,  self-respecting,  downtown 
types,  such  as  may  be  seen  crowding  the 
elevated  trains  and  ferry-boats  twice  a  day, 
except  that  these   more  or  less   industrious 

[125] 


\ 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


young  citizens  were  possessed  of  a  more 
precociously  broad  outlook  on  the  world, 
since  it  was  their  business  to  know  some- 
thing about  everything  in  it;  and,  inciden- 
tally, they  earned  more  money  than  most 
of  the  salaried  class  of  the  same  age.  At 
a  later  stage  in  their  career  they  would  earn 
less,  supposing  they  lacked  the  foresight  to 
get  out  in  time  to  choose  some  other  career 
for  which,  no  matter  what  it  might  be, 
they  were  now  acquiring  a  splendid  equip- 
ment —  even  those  who  blasphemed  their 
work  and  advised  their  younger  brothers  at 
college  never  to  go  into  it  at  all. 

Meanwhile  the  day  had  begun  —  and 
still  no  Billy  Woods.  Stone,  the  inscrutable 
city  editor,  had  arrived  at  his  large,  double 
table,  called  "The  Desk,"  in  the  corner  of 
the  room  by  the  window,  long  before  most 
of  his  reporters  were  out  of  bed.  With  a  hand 
on  the  pulse  of  the  throbbing  metropolis, 
he   was    now   giving   out    assignments,    still 

[126] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


looking  over  clippings  as  he  did  so.  These 
had  been  arranged  for  him  in  even  rank  by 
the  young  assistant  city  editor,  who  sat  at  his 
right.  Haskill  v^ould  clip  them  from  the 
other  papers  v^ith  the  v^onderful  neatness 
and  despatch  acquired  by  long  practice; 
the  city  editor  would  glance  over  them  with 
still  more  rapidity,  preserving  some  in  an- 
other little  pile,  dropping  most  of  them 
carelessly  on  the  floor,  which  was  already 
becoming  littered,  meanwhile  continuing, 
without  interruption,  to  give  out  assignments 
to  the  men  summoned  one  at  a  time  to  the 
desk. 

"Tenement  mystery  in  Williamsburg,  Mr, 
Cole,"  said  Stone,  handing  him  a  clipping. 
"Looks  interesting." 

Cole,  donning  hat  and  coat,  which  he  had 
only   just    removed,   went   to   Williamsburg. 

"Russell    Sage's    life    threatened    again," 
Stone  remarked  casually  to  another.     "  Prob- 
ably a  fake,"  he  added  discouragingly. 
[127] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


To  a  third  he  said,  "The  Harkness  woman, 
found;  half  an  hour  ago;  be  arraigned  at 
Jefferson  Market."  And  out  went  a  third 
after  news.  A  woman  accused  of  murder- 
ing her  lover  is  always  a  good  story,  and  this 
experienced  reporter  was  not  on  a  salary,  but 
was  a  "space  man/'  So  his  day  would  be 
happier  than  that  of  the  woman  he  watched. 

To  another  veteran,  a  former  clergyman, 
Stone  said,  "Presbyterian  Confession  of 
Faith  —  good  scrap  on  to-day,"  and  then 
permitted  his  glance  to  shoot  toward  a 
waiting  office  boy  w^ho  now  stopped  chewing 
gum  to  say,  with  a  jerk  of  a  dirty  thumb, 
"Man  outside  wid  a  story  telling  how  much 
de  ladies  in  de  four  hundred  spend  on  hand- 
made underdose." 

"Tell  him  he  came  to  the  wrong  news- 
paper," said  the  city  editor  in  a  languid 
tone,  and  turned  to  another  reporter,  an 
antique  heirloom  handed  down,  none  too 
gently,   from   a   former  era.     He   had   been 

[128] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


everything  in  the  newspaper  business  from 
office  boy  to  editor-in-chief  of  his  own 
paper  in  a  Western  city.  At  the  present 
moment  he  was  just  back  from  a  suburban 
assignment,  given  the  evening  before  by 
the  night  city  editor.  "Well,  did  he  die  in 
great  agony?"  Stone  asked,  considerately 
jocular. 

"No,  damn  it!"  the  ancient  newspaper 
man  replied  with  honest  disappointment. 
It  was  all  very  well  for  Stone  to  joke,  he  had 
his  regular  salary,  thought  the  old  reporter, 
who  had  a  family  to  support.  In  fact,  he 
had  two  families,  having  married  a  second 
time  a  few  years  ago. 

"Hard  luck,"  said  the  editor,  almost 
sympathetically.  "Have  a  talk  with  the 
widow?" 

"Nope,"  sighed  the  dreary  old  reporter. 
"Still  prostrated." 

"Too  bad,"  said  Stone,  for  it  would  have 
been  good  stuff.  "  Keep  it  under  two  sticks, 
[129] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


please,"  he  added,  unconsciously  measuring 
off  the  space  of  three  inches  with  thumb  and 
finger. 

The  ragged-edged  reporter,  sighing  wearily, 
went  back  to  his  desk  to  write,  though  there 
was  no  hurry  to  write  a  story  of  that  length. 
"Just  my  luck,"  he  complained  to  a  colleague 
across  the  table,  speaking  in  the  manner  of 
a  contemporary;  "third  story  in  succession 
to  fizzle  out.  My  new  baby's  got  pneumonia, 
his  mother  is  still  in  bed,  and  the  rent's  due 
next  Monday."  Then,  clearing  his  throat, 
"Say,  old  man,  just  a  *V,'  will  you,  till  the 
ghost  walks  ?" 

"I  would,"  was  the  reply,  "but  I  met  an 
old  friend  last  night  and  blew  in  every  cent 
I  had." 

The  old  reporter  tried  elsewhere,  but  each, 
in  turn,  had  some  equally  good  excuse. 
Others,  seeing  him  first,  got  out  of  the  way 
before  he  reached  them.  There  was  hardly 
a  man  on  the  staff  to  whom  he  did  not  already 

[  130] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


owe  more  than  they  ever  expected  to  get 
back,  and  he  shared  their  expectations  in 
the  matter.  He  was  of  a  different  sort  from 
the  rest  of  them,  more  characteristic  of  cer- 
tain other  offices  than  of  this  one,  they  said ; 
but  he  managed  to  cHng  to  his  present  hum- 
ble position  on  this  staff  by  means  of  an 
ancient  pull.  He  and  a  certain  august  per- 
son in  the  inner  room  had  once  been  promis- 
ing striplings  together.  The  one  had  gone 
up,    the    other    down. 

While  the  staff  pretended  not  to  watch, 
he  was  seen  shuffling  slowly  up  to  the  city 
editor's  desk  again,  where,  pretending  to 
look  for  something  he  had  left,  he  enacted 
the  little  comedy  they  had  often  witnessed 
before,  which  Scott  called  "melting  Stone." 
The  old  reporter  wore  the  same  shame- 
faced expression  he  always  wore,  consciously 
or  otherwise,  which  Scott  called  his  "touch- 
ing look."  And  the  city  editor,  still  at  work, 
looked  oblivious  and  preoccupied  as  usual, 

[131] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


but  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  as  usual,  in 
a  careless  fashion  as  if  he  merely  liked  to 
work  with  a  hand  in  his  pocket.  Presently 
he  took  it  out  again  and  let  it  rest  care- 
lessly on  the  desk  a  moment.  Then  presently 
the  old  reporter  seemed  to  find  what  he  was 
looking  for,  the  city  editor  meanwhile  work- 
ing unintermittently  and  not  once  looking 
up,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  staff  carefully 
averting  their  smiling  faces  for  fear  of  hurt- 
ing his  feelings.  The  old  reporter  put  on  his 
hat,  walked  down  to  the  gate,  turned  and 
made  a  signal  to  the  first  man  he  had  struck 
for  a  loan,  which  meant,  "Join  me  down- 
stairs," and  pantomimed  taking  a  drink. 

The  city  editor  would  not  have  seen  this, 
even  if  his  eyes  had  not  been  short-sighted,  — 
one  cannot  very  well  have  good  eyesight  and 
be  the  best  copy-reader  in  town  at  the 
same  time,  —  for  the  newest  reporter  had  at 
that  moment  rushed  into  the  office  and  up  to 
the  desk  in  a  state  of  important  excitement. 
[  132  ] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


He  was  unused  to  the  ways  of  newspapers 
and  knew  nothing  about  Stone,  except  that 
he  was  afraid  of  him.  "  Big  story,"  he  cried. 
"Two  Itahans  killed  by  that  boiler  explo- 
sion.    I  saw  the  bodies  myself." 

Stone,  twitching  his  ugly,  black  pipe  in 
irritation,  cut  him  off  shortly.  "Anything 
worth  while  .?"  he  asked  in  a  tone  that  was 
ominously  demure. 

The  cub  reporter  was  a  bit  taken  aback. 
"Two  men  were  killed,"  he  repeated. 
"Two  human  beings."  They  were  the 
first  dead  bodies  he  had  ever  seen,  and  he 
was  still  impressed  with  the  awfulness  of  it. 

The  city  editor  hadn't  time  to  look  up 
again.  "Ten  lines,"  he  said,  and  the  newest 
reporter  learned  his  first  lesson  in  news 
values.  But  he  was  so  very  new  that  his 
amazement  made  him  wait  as  if  dazed,  thereby 
endangering  himself  unconsciously  to  anni- 
hilation. Some  of  the  older  men,  knowing 
Stone,  drifted  nearer  the  desk,  casually,  as 

[^33] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


if  looking  for  copy  paper,  in  order  to  enjoy 
the  fun.  But  they  were  destined  to  be  sur- 
prised and  the  cub  reporter  to  receive  his 
second  lesson  in  news  values.  "Anything 
else?"  asked  the  city  editor,  restraining 
himself  mercifully. 

"N-no,"  hesitated  the  cub,  unaware  of 
the  audience  behind  him.  "By  the  way," 
he  added,  in  an  informal,  conversational 
tone,  quite  different  from  his  former  official 
report,  "there  was  a  baby  sleeping  in  a  baby 
carriage  thirty  feet  from  the  explosion. 
Funny,  but  it  wasn't  even  touched." 

The  city  editor  looked  up.  "That's  worth 
a  dozen  Dagos,"  he  said.  "Write  a  half- 
column." 

And  still  no  Billy  Woods. 

Another  member  of  the  staff,  who,  like 
the  old  one,  had  come  in  late  to  report  on 
an  assignment  given  the  night  before,  was 
making  the   usual   inquiries. 

"Oh,    say,  this    thing  is  getting    monoto- 

[  134  ] 


IN   PARK  ROW 


nous,"  remarked  Scott,  a  youthful  cynic 
who  was  acquiring  a  reputation  as  a  phrase- 
maker,  and  knew  it.  "Every  day  now  for 
the  last  two  weeks,  it's  'Where's  Billy 
Woods?'    instead   of  'Good  morning.'" 

"And  instead  of  *How  are  you  feeling?' 
put    in     Jones,    somewhat    older    but    stilll 
young     enough     to     be    overdressed,     "it's 
*Has   the  governor  signed  the  Cunningham 
bill?'" 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  the  Cun- 
ningham bill  ?"  This  came  in  a  loud, 
Southern  drawl,  from  a  big  burly  man  bend- 
ing over  one  of  the  letter-boxes  just  outside 
of  the  entrance-gate.  He  carried  a  suit-case 
and   his   name   was    Covington. 

"Another!"  sighed  Jones,  wearily,  and 
Scott  shouted,  guyingly,  "Say,  you  have 
been  out  of  the  world ! "  Covington  now 
came  in  with  the  smile  of  a  man  who  had  been 
away  for  a  fortnight,  and  was  greeted  with 
hellos  and  handshakes.     "Well,"  they  said, 

[135] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"you  didn't  get  shot  down  there  in  the  moun- 
tains ?" 

"That's  a  pity,"  put  in  Scott,  who  always 
thought  it  funny  to  say  things  of  that  sort. 

Covington,  looking  brown  and  merry, 
remarked  that  Tennessee  feuds  were  dead 
slow  compared  to  crossing  Broadway  a 
moment  before.  Then,  being  able  to  wait 
no  longer,  added  the  inevitable,  "Say,  what 
did  you  think  of  my  stuff?"  They  told  him, 
for  the  most  part  frankly,  what  they  thought. 
Some  of  it  was  praise,  some  of  it  was  not, 
but  it  was  all  given  in  a  friendly,  fraternal 
spirit   and  was   helpful  criticism. 

They  w^ere  diverted  by  the  high  voice  of 
Haskill,  the  assistant  city  editor,  who,  with 
the  telephone  receiver  in  his  hand,  announced 
to  Stone,  with  some  excitement:  "General 
Cunningham  left  Albany  for  New  York  five 
hours  ago." 

Stone   said,    "Huh!" 

"Our  sleepy  correspondent  just  discovered 

[136] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


it,"  Haskill  added,  by  way  of  palliation  for 
his   excitement. 

Stone,  who  had  glanced  at  the  clock,  called, 
"Linton." 

One  of  the  reporters  dropped  his  feet  to 
the  floor  —  they  had  been  resting  on  his 
table  —  and  hastened  to  the  desk. 

"  Cunningham's  office  and  see  if  he's  there. 
Hurry." 

Linton  went  out  quickly. 

"What's  all  this  excitement  about  the 
Water-front  Parks  bill.?"  asked  Covington, 
among  the  gossiping  group  of  reporters. 
"Nothing  in  the  papers  about  it  —  except 
political  hot  air." 

"Because  nobody  can  get  the  inside 
story,"   he  was   informed. 

"Louisville  papers  were  all  I  could 
get  hold  of  down  there,"  said  Covington. 
"Passed  both  Houses,  didn't  it?" 

"Right.  Without  any  of  the  expected 
opposition." 

[137] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


"Well,  but  I  thought  the  governor  had 
pledged  his  support." 

"Right." 

"Then  why  doesn't  he  sign  it.?" 

"That's  the  story!"  replied  several  voices 
at  once. 

"Governor  jealous  of  Cunningham's  re- 
turning popularity.?"  Covington  asked. 

"Risking  his  own  every  hour  he  post- 
pones signing  the  bill,"  was  the  reply.  And 
one  of  the  older  men  supplemented,  "Got 
to  hurry  up  then.  To-morrow's  the  tenth 
day.  According  to  the  Constitution  of  the 
State  of  New  York,  the  bill  becomes  a  law 
whether  the  governor  signs  it  or  not — " 
with  a  look  at  the  clock  —  "in  a  little  less 
than  twenty-two  hours." 

"Can't  Billy  Woods  clear  up  the  mystery  ?" 
asked  Covington,  innocently,  and  wondered 
why  his  question  was  greeted  with  stares  and 
smiles. 

"Say,    he    has   been    out   of   the   world," 

[  138  ] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


Scott  repeated  to  himself.  And,  taking 
Covington  by  the  shoulders,  turned  him 
about  and  pointed  at  Woods's  desk  nearer 
the  front  of  the  room. 

'Again?'*  asked  Covington.  "Where  is 
he.?" 

"'  Where  is  he  !'"  smiled  Jones.  "They're 
telegraphing  all  over  two  continents  to  find 
out."  Then,  his  friends  had  the  rare  pleas- 
ure of  telling  Covington  how  on  the  night  of 
Woods's  disappearance  two  weeks  ago,  the 
presses  had  been  held  open  until  the  last 
moment ;  how  crazy  the  night  editor  and  all 
the  rest  had  been  when  they  had  to  go  to 
press  without  even  a  word  from  Billy. 

The  other  part  of  the  incident  was  also 
related.  Holbein,  of  one  of  the  rival  papers, 
who  had  been  at  Fernleigh  that  night,  had 
stated  frankly  that  if  it  had  not  been  for 
Billy,  none  of  them  would  have  had  "a 
smell"  of  the  story  he  alone  was  beaten  on; 
that   it  was    Billy,   too,   who   had    arranged 

[139] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


before  the  others  arrived  to  keep  the  nearest 
telegraph  office  open.  As  they  hurried  to 
the  train  for  this  telegraph  office,  fourteen 
miles  distant  from  Fernleigh,  Billy  had  lin- 
gered to  say  something  to  that  man  Lascelles. 
The  latter,  out  of  breath,  had  caught  the 
train  just  as  it  started,  saying  he  had  waited 
to  warn  Billy,  who  wanted  to  bid  Miss 
Cunningham  good  night.  Since  then,  no 
one  had  seen  or  heard  of  him,  not  even  Las- 
celles, apparently,  who  was  going  about  his 
business  as  usual,  though  his  employers 
were  threatening  to  discharge  him  for  his 
old  crime  of  faking.  They  had  no  reason, 
as  yet,  to  believe  any  more  serious  rumors 
against  him,  or  he  would  have  been  kicked 
out  without  warning. 


[140] 


II 

While  the  men  were  still  gossiping  Miss 
Daros  came  in,  quite  late.  She  was  the 
only  woman  reporter  employed  regularly 
on  the  staff —  a  small,  dark  Russian  Jewess, 
with  a  strange,  concentrated  face,  suggesting 
the  characteristic  smoldering  emotions  which 
blaze  up  readily.  It  was  one  of  those  faces 
painters  find  interesting,  but  few  other  men 
do.     She  was  a  recent  acquisition. 

Though  as  lacking  in  breeding  as  she  was 
in  adornment,  —  the  women  type-writers 
stared  at  her  clothes  heartlessly,  —  she  showed 
the  refinement  of  a  good  education.  She 
did  not  condescend  to  sneer  at  the  other 
women  and  held  herself  aloof  from  them 
quite  as  much  as  they  did  from  her.  It 
was  the  general  opinion  of  the  office  that 
she  was  an  anarchist.  It  was  well  known 
[  HI  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


that  she  sent  and  received  mysterious  mes- 
sages, and  as  she  seemed  to  like  the  air  of 
mystery,  the  men,  who  treated  her  with 
impersonal  courtesy,  let  her  think  they  were 
very  much  impressed,  and  thus  both  sides 
got  harmless  diversion  out  of  it. 

One  of  the  gum-chewing  boys  had  re- 
sponded to  her  grave  good  morning  with 
patronizing  indifference.  She  pronounced 
her  English  words  as  educated  Russians 
pronounce  all  languages,  more  correctly 
than  those  whose  language  it  is  and  who 
think,  because  it  is  theirs,  they  can  do  what 
they  like  with  it.  But  the  boy,  who  was 
of  the  same  extraction,  had  been  born  in 
America,  and  looked  upon  her  as  an  igno- 
rant foreigner. 

She  drew  close  to  him  and  began,  with 
an  eager,  surreptitious  air,  to  put  the  usual 
question  with  regard  to  Mr.  Woods,  but 
was  cut  short  by  the  boy's  "Naw,  he  ain't," 
without  so  much  as  shifting  his  gum. 

[142] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


"Ah,"  said  Miss  Daros,  non-committally, 
and  looked  around  to  see  whether  she  was 
observed.  Then,  seeing  Tommy  standing 
idle,  she  decided  that  he  would  prove  a  more 
trustworthy  intermediary.  Turning  her  back 
so  that  no  possible  observer  might  see,  she 
first  gave  Tommy  a  coin,  a  rather  heavy  one, 
which  made  the  lad  say,  "What's  dis  fur?" 

"For  you,"  said  Miss  Daros,  with  clear 
enunciation  and  without  a  smile.  "And 
this,"  she  added,  slipping  a  square  envelope 
into  his  hands,  "is  for  Mr.  Woods." 

Stone,  seeing  a  female  and  guessing  rightly 
that  it  was  Miss  Daros,  called  her  sharply. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  called  back,  and  added 
to  Tommy,  "Not  on  his  desk.  He  might 
forget  to  look  at  it.  And  do  not  you  for- 
get, for  there  will  be  a  second  one."  She 
pointed  to  the  other  hand,  which  held  the 
coin  and  hurried  on  up  to  the  desk. 

"Dat's  easy  money,"  thought  Tommy, 
reviewing  certain  recent  losses  at  craps. 

[143] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"Late  again,"  Stone  said,  not  as  a  criti- 
cism, apparently,  so  much  as  a  comment, 
though  it  was  not  like  Stone  to  make  un- 
meaning comments,  nor  was  it  like  him  to 
waste  time  from  his  work  to  look  at  her  while 
he  spoke. 

Miss  Daros  suppressed  a  yawn.  "Over- 
slept," she  said. 

Stone,  wasting  no  more  time  on  further 
comments,  handed  her  two  tickets,  saying 
in  his  quick,  jerky  way,  "This  charity  per- 
formance at  the  opera  this  evening  —  all 
the  society  crowd  will  be  there.  First  chance 
of  the  season  to  size  one  another  up.  We 
want  a  good  story  about  people  in  the  boxes." 

"Costumes?" 

"Don't  run  much  about  their  clothes. 
Tell  how  they  go  there  to  see  and  be  seen. 
A  display  of  wealth,  the  flesh  and  the  devil 
for  charity."  The  city  editor  was  unusually 
loquacious  to-day,  and  seemed  to  be  inter- 
ested in  her.  "  Do  it  humorously  if  you  can. 
[  144] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


Keep  your  sociology  out  of  it.  Apparently 
take  'em  seriously  so  they  won't  be  offended, 
but  give  readers  who  are  amused  a  chance 
to  smile;  those  who  are  envious  a  chance 
to  jeer  —  for  Charity."  Then  he  called 
"Jones!"  and  went  on  giving  assignments 
without  further  comments.  But  it  was  no- 
ticed that  he  had  left  off  all  other  work  while 
talking  to  her  in  a  vein  he  seldom  employed. 
One  might  have  thought  that  he  was  taking 
the  trouble  to  be  satirical  about  the  vanities 
of  fashionable  life,  which  was  not  like  him 
at  all.  His  attitude  toward  the  whole  human 
spectacle  was  a  Jove-like  tolerance  as  long 
as  it  made  good  copy  for  his  paper.  For 
what  was  the  object  of  all  the  manifold  human 
activities  except  to  make  news  for  his  staff 
to  write  as  he  directed,  and  for  his  copy 
readers  to  polish  into  proper  form  with 
adequate  heads  thereon  .? 

Miss  Daros  had  gone  to  her  writing-table. 
She  hesitated  a  moment,  returned  to  Tommy 

[  145  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


again,  who  was  jeering  the  other  boy  for  the 
chance  he  had  missed,  and  reminded  her 
emissary  that  it  was  a  secret  mission.  She 
then  took  her  place  at  her  table,  throwing  oflF 
her  street-coat,  but  still  wrapped  in  mystery. 

Henderson,  the  political  reporter,  a  middle- 
aged  man,  came  into  the  room  from  uptown, 
smoking  his  perpetual  cigar  with  a  pufF  of 
importance. 

Stone  recognized  his  footsteps,  felt  the 
importance,  and  said,  before  Henderson 
reached  the  desk,  "What  did  you  get  ?" 

"Absolutely  nothing,''  growled  Hender- 
son, with  a  gesture  of  discouragement. 
"Amen  Corner  swear  they  are  as  much  in 
the  dark  about  it  as  we  are;  they  say  it  must 
be  some  private  quarrel  between  Cunning- 
ham and  the  governor." 

"See  Shayne?" 

Henderson  shook  his  head. 

"Nordheimer.?" 

"You  can't  get  within  a  mile  of  any  of 

[146] 


IN   PARK   ROW 


the  commissioners.  Taking  their  cue  from 
Cunningham.     All  agree  to  say  nothing.'' 

"What  did  you  get?"  interrupted  Stone, 
irritated. 

"Nothing." 

"Write  a  column." 

As  if  to  make  matters  worse,  young  Linton 
came  back  to  the  office  at  this  point  to  an- 
nounce that  General  Cunningham  had  not 
been  near  his  office  for  a  week,  and  Stone 
frowned  at  him  as  if  that  were  his  fault. 
Linton  escaped  to  the  remnant  of  the  group 
of  reporters  who  were  still  talking  about 
Billy  Woods.  Covington  was  saying,  "So 
that  is  Lascelles's  theory  of  the  mystery, 
is  it.^"  This  made  Henderson,  writing  his 
column  about  nothing  at  a  near-by  desk, 
look  up  with  a  pitying  smile. 

"Did  you  ever  catch  Lascelles  telling 
the  truth  .?"  he  asked. 

"Say,  I  saw  Lascelles  down  at  the  corner," 
said  Linton.     "  Still  there  when  I  came  back. 

[147] 


>j 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


Henderson  smiled  again.  "It's  encour- 
aging to  find  some  of  you  boys  learning  to 
use  your  eyes,"  he  said.  "Another  of  that 
crew  is  hanging  around  Billy  Woods's  apart- 
ment any  time  you  may  be  happening  to 
pass  there,  night  or  day."  With  that,  he 
bent  to  his  work  again  and  wrote :  "  However, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  impression  is  being 
created  in  certain  influential  quarters  that 
while  the  Water-front  Parks  would  — "  and 
so  on. 

"Ah,  the  grand  old  man  has  a  theory," 
whispered  Scott,  audibly. 

"Moreover,"  added  Henderson,  ignoring 
the  chaff  and  holding  back  the  creation  of  the 
impression,  with  his  pen  suspended,  "there's 
something  queer  going  on  in  this  very  office." 

"Now  we'll  find  out  all  about  it,"  said 
Scott,  with  mock  gravity. 

Henderson  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
went  on  with  his  creation.  "  Keep  your  eyes 
open,"  was  all  he  would  say. 

[148] 


Ill 

Tommy,  the  office  boy,  hurled  a  wad  of 
copy  paper  at  an  inky  other  boy  with  proofs 
from  the  composing  room,  bumped  into  a 
passing  editorial  writer,  displacing  the  latter's 
dignity,  and  strolled  leisurely  up  to  the  desk 
and  waited  to  get  Mr.  Stone's  attention. 
Presently  Stone  nodded. 

"Old  gent  outside  to  see  Mr.  Woods " 

Before  the  city  editor  could  scowl,  the 
quick  youngster  added,  "Yissir;  I  told  'im; 
but  I  tink  dere's  a  big  stor}^  into  it."  Again 
he  tempted  fate,  but  warded  it  ofF  by  adding, 
"Old  gent  looks  Hke  de  pictures  of  General 
Cunningham!"  and  gloated  inwardly  at 
having  made  the  city  editor  straighten  up. 
Haskill  also  looked  at  him. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  ?"  Stone  snarled. 
"Ask  him  if  there's  anything  I  can  do." 
[149] 


TIIK    DAY-DREAMER 


"\'issir,"  said  Tommy,  going,  and  added, 
showing  a  proper  appreciation  of  the  rela- 
tivity of  news  values,  "Dere's  a  young  loidy 
wid  'im.  She  keeps  sayin',  'Now  don't 
excite  yourself,  fadder/  De  ole  man's  sort 
of  up  in  de  air !  an'  dere's  a  hot  Willy-boy, 
too,    and   he   says " 

But  Stone  twitched  his  pipe  and  Tommy 
took  the  warning  sign  and  hurried  on  down 
the  room. 

"Haskill,"  —  Stone  allowed  himself  a 
light  smile,  —  "must  be  something  doing 
to  make  him  come  to  us."  For  the  general 
had  never  forgiven  them  the  interview  which 
had  cost  him  the  Presidential  nomination.  He 
would  not  believe  that  they  had  been  as 
innocent,  if  not  as  great,  sufferers  as  himself. 
They  had  never  forgiven  him  for  not  believ- 
ing it,  nor  for  his  public  utterances  of  his 
belief  in  the  unscrupulousness  of  their  light- 
ning changes  in  editorial  policy.  But  at 
one  time  or  another  nearly  every  prominent 

[150] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


citizen  finds  it  convenient  to  call  upon  the 
newspapers  for  the  purpose  of  having  some- 
thing put  in  or  kept  out  of  their  pages.  This 
is  usually  called  the  "cooperation  of  the 
fearless  press."  ' 

Stone  v^ent  down  to  meet  the  distinguished 
old  gentleman  now  entering  the  gate.  He 
was  accompanied  by  his  daughter  and 
Gilbert  Townsend.  The  girl  seemed  in- 
clined to  come  all  the  way  into  the  room 
with  her  father,  but  he  shook  his  head, 
and  Gilbert  persuaded  her  to  be  seated 
outside  of  the  gate.  "  It's  no  place  for  you," 
said  the  latter. 

"But  look  at  father,"  she  repHed.  The 
general  seemed  to  be  laboring  under  consider- 
able excitement,  which  he  was  controlling 
pretty  well.  Frances  thought  he  had  aged 
during  the  last  two  weeks,  but  hoped  it  was 
not  so  bad  as  the  nerve-specialist  let  them 
fear. 

Gilbert  did  not  approve  of  this  move  and 

[  151  ] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


had  done  his  best  to  dissuade  the  general 
from  coming.  Frances  had  prevailed.  She 
watched  her  father  solicitously  as  the  city 
editor  came  forward  to  meet  him,  and 
throughout  the  interview  her  eyes  remained 
fixed  upon  him;  quite  unconscious,  which 
was  remarkable,  of  the  many  eyes  that 
indulged  in  a  glance  or  two  at  her.  They 
were  not  all  men's  eyes.  Miss  Daros  seemed 
on  the  point  of  going  down  to  speak  to  her 
once  or  twice,  but  took  it  out  in  looking  at  her 
instead.  She  had  met  Miss  Cunningham 
some  time  ago  in  an  East  Side  settlement,  and 
they  had  become  interested  in  each  other. 

The  city  editor  had  tried  to  start  the  general 
talking  while  leading  him  apart,  but  the  old 
gentleman  had  many  preliminary  questions 
to  ask  about  the  probable  whereabouts  of 
Woods,  and  it  took  a  long  time  to  get  him 
off  the  subject. 

Stone  offered  him  a  chair.  "Anything 
we  can  do?"  he  asked. 

[  152  ] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


"I  am  just  back  from  Albany."  The 
editor  nodded  with  respectful  patience.  "  My 
time  is  extremely  limited,  extremely  limited. 
I  am  sailing  for  Europe  in  the  morning  and 
there  are  many  matters  to  arrange.  But 
before  I  go " 

It  was  impossible  for  Stone  to  endure  this 
stately  deliberation.  "Mr.  Manning,  the 
managing  editor,  has  not  come  down  yet," 
he  cut  in,  with  an  apology,  "but  if  you  want 
to  talk  to  one  of  the  editorial  writers  —  I 
take  it  you  want  our  cooperation  to  make 
the  governor  sign  that  bill .?" 

"No.     To  make  him  veto  it!" 

"Veto  your  own  bill!"  The  general  had 
done  better  than  Tommy;  he  had  made 
Stone  exclaim,  something  which  made  all 
those  who  were  near  enough  drop  their  work 
and  take  notice,  for  this  was  a  big  story. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  bill,  sir?" 
demanded  Stone,  trying  to  color  his  eagerness 
with  respect.    "  May  I  ask  what  you  charge  ^ " 

[153] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


"Nothing." 

"What  do  you  suspect?" 

The  general  smiled  grimly.  "  Everything," 
he  said,  and  subsided. 

Stone  was  leaning  forward  eagerly,  all  his 
faculties  alert  and  waiting.  He  knew  it 
was  best  for  the  old  man  to  tell  his  own 
story  first  and  to  ask  questions  afterward. 
But  a  whole  second  had  gone  by.  "What 
has  aroused  your  suspicions,  sir?"  Stone 
inquired. 

The  general  hesitated.  Stone  picked  up 
things  from  the  table  and  put  them  down 
elsewhere.     The  old  man  cleared  his  throat. 

"It  began  —  it  sounds  trivial:  My  daugh- 
ter's attention  was  directed  to  the  actions  of 
certain  members  of  my  board  while  guests  at 
my  house  —  we  need  mention  no  names  in 
this  matter  —  their  heads  together,  or  some- 
thing equally  insignificant  in  itself.  That 
was  the  beginning.  Since  then,  many  things. 
In  fact,  their  whole  attitude  in  this  matter, 

[154] 


IN   PARK   ROW 


since  its  inception,  seems  —  I  am  now 
persuaded  —  suspicious,  convincingly  suspi- 
cious." 

"Suspicious  —  any  real  evidence?"  asked 
Stone. 

"Would  I  stop  here  with  it  .^"  returned 
the  general,  haughtily.  "If  I  had  succeeded 
with  my  lawyers,  even  detectives,  the  governor 
would  brave  your  criticism  and  veto  that  now 
much-lauded  measure  which  bears  my  name. 
As  it  is,  it  was  only  by  the  greatest  effort  — 
in  fact,  I  may  say  that  it  is  entirely  due  to 
our  ancient  friendship,  that  I  succeeded  in 
keeping  him  from  signing  it.  I  stayed  his 
hand  almost  in  the  very  act.  He  has  now 
given  me  what  amounts  to  an  ultimatum. 
Unless  some  plausible  reason  is  adduced 
for  vetoing  the  bill,  he  will  be  reluctantly 
compelled " 

"I  see,"  said  Stone.  He  saw  how^  very 
different  the  real  inside  story  was  from  the 
theories   his   and   all   the   other  newspapers 

[155] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


had  been  working  on.  He  was  looking  for 
threads  by  which  to  gather  the  real  story. 
He  saw  Manning,  the  managing  editor, 
stopping  at  the  entrance  gate  to  speak  in 
surprise  to  Miss  Cunningham,  who  was 
pointing  excitedly  at  her  father. 

"As  a  last  resort  I  have  been  persuaded," 
the  old  man  went  on  in  his  courtly  manner, 
"to  come  to  you  because  you  number  among 
the  members  of  your  board  —  I  should  say 
your  staff — that  young  man  Woods  who 
ferreted  out  the  corruption  in  the  Dock 
Board  and  who " 

"  Here  comes  the  managing  editor  —  Mr. 
Manning.     Better  talk  to  him." 

Manning,  looking  well-fed  and  imperturb- 
able as  usual,  approaching  gallantly  with 
Frances,  and  followed  enduringly  by  Gilbert, 
now  called  out  to  the  general:  "Ah,  General 
Cunningham !  An  unexpected  pleasure." 
These  two  had  sat  next  to  each  other  often 
at  dinners  and  put  up  a  very  good  bluff  of 

[156] 


IN   PARK   ROW 


enjoying  it.  Manning  held  out  his  hand 
effusively.  The  statesman  greeted  the  editor 
with  the  stately  politeness  that  always  won  so 
much  admiration  from  women  and  so  little 
affection  from  men.  Manning  started  the 
three  callers  up  the  room  in  the  direction  of 
his  private  office  opposite  the  city-desk,  and 
lingered  a  moment  to  whisper  hurriedly  to 
Stone,  "If  Woods  should  come,  I  want  to 
see  him  after  we  finish."  Then  he  hurried 
after  the  others  and  led  the  way  out  of  the 
room  and  through  a  passage  to  the  insignifi- 
cant compartment  where  important  things 
were  done. 

"My  advice,  sir,"  whispered  Gilbert,  "is 
to  leave  this  place." 


[157] 


IV 

The  coming  of  Secretary  Cunningham 
had  caused  a  ripple  of  astonishment  that 
was  still  splashing  around  the  edges  of  the 
city-room.  He  seemed  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  be  seeking  the  "cooperation  of  the 
fearless  press,"  and  this  the  last  paper  to  ask 
it  from. 

"Bad  case  of  nerves,"  smiled  Haskill  to 
his  superior,  as  the  latter  returned  to  the 
desk. 

"Nerves  or  nerve  .f*"  asked  Stone. 

Haskill  did  not  understand. 

"What  did  he  go  into  politics  for .?"  replied 
Stone.  "What  do  they  all  go  into  politics 
for  ?  Suppose  he  put  a  hidden  string  in  his 
bill.  Suppose  the  newspapers,  when  the 
time  came,  caught  him  pulling  something  out 
with  it  ?     Point  to  this  bluff  with  us  and  put 

[158] 


IN   PARK   ROW 


it  up  to  the  others."     Stone  returned  to  his 
work. 

"Say,  Mr.  Stone,"  asked  Haskill,  smiling, 
"don't  you  beheve  in  anybody?" 

"Haskill,    I've    been    in    the    newspaper 
business  thirty-five  years." 

Covington  had  received  an  assignment  and 
strolled  out  of  the  room  with  the  cheerful 
whistle  of  a  confirmed  New  Yorker,  delighted 
to  be  back  on  the  exhilarating  streets  of  the 
fascinating  city  of  his  adoption.  Halfway 
down  the  stairs  he  stopped,  turned,  and  ran 
back  to  the  city-room.  "Say,  you-all,"  he 
yelled,  "yonder  comes  Billy  Woods!"  The 
others  began  asking  questions.  Before  they 
could  be  answered,  the  cause  of  the  excite- 
ment was  bending  over  the  latch  at  the  gate, 
looking  grave  and  concerned,  but  not  as  if 
aware  of  having  been  away,  or  of  their  excite- 
ment over  his  return. 

"Cunningham  here.?"  he  asked  quietly  of 
Jones,  the  nearest  to  the  gate. 

[  159  ] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


"Yes,  in  Manning's  room,"  was  the  reply. 
"Was  asking  for  you." 

"Asking  for  me.?"  Woods  snapped  his 
fingers  in  irritation.  "  I  was  looking  for  him. 
Reached  Albany  just  in  time  to  miss  him. 
Chased  him  all  the  way  down.  What's  the 
inside  story  ? " 

"Doesn't  know  himself.  Banking  on  your 
getting  it.  Where  the  devil  have  you  been  .?" 
The  others  had  gathered  around  and  began 
firing  questions  at  him.  Woods  blinked  and 
looked  them  all  over  as  if  considering  them 
as  individuals  for  the  first  time,  and  feeling 
very  glad  to  see  them. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  this  time?" 
they  repeated. 

"Oh,  been  away,"  he  replied. 

"  Know  how  long  V  asked  one  of  the  group. 

Woods  paused  and  turned  to  Tommy,  who 
was  grinning  beside  him  in  the  doorway. 
"How  long  was  it.  Tommy.?" 

"Thirteen  days,  sir,  dis  evenin'.'* 
[i6o] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


Woods  turned  to  the  group.  "Thirteen 
days." 

"Dis  evenin',"  whispered  Tommy. 

"This  evening,"  said  Woods.  "Why, 
hello,  Covvy  ! "  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  beam- 
ing at  his  old  friend  Covington.  "When 
did  you  get  back  f  Awfully  glad  to  see  you. 
Have  much  fun  down  there  ^  Great  country, 
isn't  it  ^ "  He  seemed  to  want  to  hear  all 
about  it  from  Covington. 

Miss  Daros,  in  the  background,  at  last 
got  Tommy's  eye.  She  made  an  incon- 
spicuous signal  which  Tommy  interpreted 
by  putting  the  note  into  Woods's  hand. 

"But  what  did  you  do  all  this  time, 
Billy.?"  the  others  were  asking. 

Woods,  ignoring  them  as  he  did  the  note, 
which  he  slipped  absent-mindedly  into  his 
pocket,  drew  Tommy  aside  and  whispered, 
"Who's  got  the  London  job.  Tommy  — 
to-morrow  on  the  CedricF'*  He  glanced  in 
the  direction  of  Manning's  room. 
[i6i] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


"Search  me,"  whispered  Tommy.  "Dey 
wanted  you  bad,  Mr.  Woods.  Chewin'  de 
rag  over  how  you  turned  'em  down.  Where'd 
you  go,  sir?"     Tommy  was  privileged. 

Woods  looked  at  the  boy  and  smiled. 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  wanted  to  get  off  the 
earth.  Ever  want  to  get  off  the  earth. 
Tommy  ?" 

"  Did  I !  Say !  De  sportin'  editor,  he 
was  goin'  to  take  me  to  see  Jeff  knock  out 


"Oh,  Woods,"  interrupted  the  city  editor, 
authoritatively,  from  the  other  end  of  the 
room. 

"Yes,  sir,"  Woods  responded  briskly, 
and  started  up  the  room,  swinging  his  cane 
gayly ;  but  on  the  way  he  seemed  to  become 
more  and  more  fully  awake  to  his  iniquity 
and  walked  more  and  more  slowly  as  he 
drew  near,  looking  at  the  editor  with  a 
whimsical  expression  as  if  humor  and  remorse 
were    both   tugging    at    his    countenance    at 

[162] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


once.  "Doesn't  look  as  if  he'd  been  off 
on  a  bat,"  whispered  one  of  the  group,  after 
Billy  passed. 

Stone,  in  a  grave  tone,  now  said,  "Mr. 
Woods." 

The  prodigal  replied,  "Yes,  sir,"  once 
more,  but  this  time  in  a  different  voice. 

"He's  calling  him  *Mr.  Woods,'"  com- 
mented Jones  to  the  other  reporters,  all  of 
whom  had  been  looking  on  with  more  than 
the  usual  interest  in  Woods's  return.  The 
only  thing  invariable  about  his  manner  on 
these  occasions  was  its  difference  from  the 
last  time. 

"Absent  thirteen  days  without  leave," 
said  Stone,  briefly. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Woods.  "Won't  be 
thirteen   days  till   to-night." 

"Not  the  first  time,  either,"  said  Stone, 
as  sternly  as  he  could  to  Woods. 

"No,  sir;    but  I  imagine  it's  the  last." 

This  was  no  time  for  facetiousness.     "We 

[  163  ] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


needed  you,"  remarked  Stone,  with  eloquent 
brevity. 

"Needn't  rub  it  in,"  rejoined  Woods, 
looking  toward  Manning's  room  uneasily. 

"For  the  Cunningham  bill,"  added  Stone, 
which  made  Woods  start  and  look  back 
anxiously  at  the  editor. 

"There's  a  big  story  in  it  now,"  said 
the  latter,  "and  you  were  the  only  man 
for  it." 

"'Were.?'"  interjected  Woods,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"Mr.  Manning  wants  to  see  you,"  said 
Stone,  and  bent  over  his  work  again  as  if 
that  settled  it;   and  usually  it  did. 

"I  thought  so,"  muttered  Woods,  limply, 
while  the  other  reporters  in  the  background, 
shaking  their  heads  gravely,  spread  the 
news.  "He's  sending  him  in  to  see  the  old 
man!"  They  had  all  suspended  work  for 
the  time  to  watch  Woods  and  Stone.  Those 
who  had  received  assignments  were  standing 

[164] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


around  waiting  with  their  hats  on,  anxious 
to  know  the  worst  or  the  best. 

Woods  was  gazing  at  the  managing  editor's 
door.  Stone,  without  looking  up  from  his 
work,  said  to  him,  "Engaged  at  present," 
and  Woods  turned  his  gaze  upon  him  and 
kept  it  there  as  if  demanding  further  en- 
Hghtenment.  "Didn't  tell  me  what  he 
wanted  with  you,   Billy." 

"Oh,  I  can  guess,"  laughed  Woods.  And, 
with  that,  he  abruptly  strode  across  to  his 
desk  and  began  packing  up  his  possessions, 
pulling  out  books  and  manuscripts,  pipes 
and  odds  and  ends,  working  most  assidu- 
ously, and  apparently  oblivious  of  the  fact 
that  the  rest  of  the  staff  were  looking  on  in 
silence. 

Miss  Daros,  taking  advantage  of  their 
preoccupation,  quietly  stole  toward  the  tele- 
phone booth,  but  found  it  occupied  at  present 
by  one  of  the  boys,  so  she  stood  outside  and 
waited  dreamily. 

[  165  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


ivJ 


Jones  was  saying  to  one  of  the  others: 
"I  thought  they'd  let  him  try  the  Cunning- 
ham bill  as  a  final  chance  to  redeem  himself." 
That  seemed  to  be  the  general  impression. 

Woods  was  in  something  of  a  daze.  When 
he  left  Fernleigh  on  the  run,  that  fatal  night, 
it  was  partly  with  a  blind  hope  of  Lascelles's 
or  some  one's  making  the  train  wait.  When 
he  saw  the  red  lights  of  the  rear  car  fading 
away  just  out  of  reach,  he  first  set  out  to 
run  the  fourteen  miles  to  the  telegraph  office, 
then  stopped  at  the  first  farm-house,  finally 
secured  a  horse,  almost  killed  it,  found  the 
telegraph  office  dark,  searched  wildly  for 
the  operator's  house,  —  though  he  knew  the 
first  edition  had  gone  to  press,  —  and  finally 
sat  down  on  the  curb  of  the  dark,  deserted 
village  street,  and  swore.  He  had  let  the 
paper  be  beaten  on  the  news,  and  he  had 
lost  everything  he  valued  in  life. 

Aimlessly  he  took  the  first  train  for  New 
York,  boarded  a  tramp  steamer, — the  first 
[i66] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


one  he  came  to,  —  and  tumbled  into  a  bunk, 
exhausted.  It  was  either  that  or  get  drunk, 
and  he  decided  not  to  get  drunk.  When 
he  awoke  he  was  some  hundred  miles  down 
the  coast  and  found  he  was  bound  for 
Havana.  The  captain  had  already  informed 
him  of  his  destination  the  night  before  when 
the  request  for  passage  was  granted;  but 
Billy  had  not  listened,  had  not  cared;  he 
only  wanted  to  get  away  from  New  York 
and  stay  away  and  never  look  at  a  news- 
paper again.  Then  came  the  storm.  When 
the  slow  old  tub  finally  reached  Havana 
harbor,  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  ask  for 
all  the  New  York  newspapers,  as  might  be 
expected  of  a  newspaper  man.  The  rest 
may  be  guessed. 

Borrowing  some  money,  he  hurried  across 
to  Key  West,  took  the  express  north,  and 
landed  in  Albany  just  too  late  to  be  of  use. 
General  Cunningham  had  returned  to  New 
York,  his  informant  said,  the  night  before; 

[  167  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


hence  Woods  came  down  on  the  same  train 
as  the  Cunningham  party  without  knowing 
it  until  leaving  the  Grand  Central  station, 
when  he  saw  them  starting  off  in  their  car- 
riage; he  followed  in  a  cab,  and  waited 
downstairs  as  long  as  he  could  stand  it.  The 
girl  had  led  him  away  from  the  office  and  now 
she  brought  him  back  again. 

Woods,  sorting  out  letters,  tearing  up  some 
of  them,  preserving  others,  all  in  nervous 
haste,  became  aware  of  the  many  glances  in 
his  direction.  His  colleagues  hastily  averted 
their  gaze  and  pretended  to  be  writing  or 
talking  of  something  else.  The  sentient 
Henderson,  in  turning  his  eyes  from  Billy, 
caught  a  glimpse  of  something  else,  — 
Miss  Daros  disappearing  quietly  into  the 
telephone  booth.  There  was  something  in 
the  expression  of  her  back  that  arrested  his 
highly  cultivated  instincts.  Hastening  over, 
he  said,  with  his  well-known  urbanity  that 
had  brought  in  many  a  column  of  political 
[i68] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


news,  "May  I  not  get  the  number  for  you, 
Miss  Daros?" 

The  young  woman  came  out  of  the  tele- 
phone booth  rather  hastily.  "Oh,  no  matter," 
she  said.  "It's  nothing  important."  And 
Henderson  rejoined  the  others,  shaking  his 
head  wisely.     "That's  the  one,"  he  said. 

Scott  smiled  derisively.  "The  least  likely 
person  on  the  staff,"  he  commented  with 
assurance.  "Don't  you  know  the  gossip 
among  the  typewriter  girls  in  the  next  room  ^ 
Why,  she  worships  Billy  Woods,  they  say. 
Always  has  since  the  first  day  she  came  — 
and  before  that,  too,  very  likely.  Wasn't 
he  the  one  to  discover  her,  wasting  her  talents 
in  an  East  Side  sweat-shop  .?" 

Henderson  asked  the  young  man  if  he  could 
finish  the  well-known  quotation  beginning, 
"Hell  hath  no  fury—"  And  then  both 
turned  at  hearing  Woods  calling  for  Tommy, 
quite  as  if  he  wanted  ink  or  copy  paper. 

The  boy  came  on  the  run,  as  he  always  did 

[169] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


for  Billy,  and  seldom  for  any  one  else.    Woods 
made  a  sign  to  finish  packing  up  the  things. 

"Yes,  sir,"  whispered  the  boy  in  frightened 
tones.     "Where'll  I  take  'em,  sir.?'* 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  idol.  "Send 
you  word  to-morrow."  Then,  with  one  of 
his  sudden  movements,  he  turned  abruptly 
toward  the  circle  of  his  comrades  and  caught 
them  in  the  act  of  staring  at  him,  quite  to 
their  confusion.  They  all  dropped  their 
eyes,  but  he  kept  on  looking  at  them,  first 
one  and  then  another,  as  if  while  he  had  a 
chance  he  meant  to  fix  in  his  mind  the 
characteristics  of  each.  Then  he  stepped 
toward  them  slowly,  as  if  he  knew  he  could 
not  avoid  saying  good-by,  and  meant  to  have 
it  over  with.  There  was  an  awkward  silence. 
They  seemed  to  feel  it  more  than  he  did. 
"Covvy,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  h^d  to 
the  nearest,  "there's  one  thing  I'd  like  to 
ask  of  you  as  a  parting  favor."  His  voice 
sounded  very  grave. 

[170] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


"All  right,  Billy/'  Covington  made  answer. 

"  But  Fve  asked  you  before,"  said  Woods, 
shaking  his  head  earnestly.  "  You  won't 
do  it." 

"I  reckon  I  will  this  time,"  replied  Cov- 
ington, who  was  a  big,  burly  fellow. 

"When  referring  to  children,  in  your 
writings,  please  just  once  in  a  while,  for  my 
sake,  call  them  something  else  than  *  little 
tots.'"  Then  he  turned  to  another.  "Hen- 
derson, you've  been  making  those  poor 
infinitives  of  yours  do  the  split  again.  It's  so 
vulgar.  Say,  Scott,  you're  a  bright  boy  and 
some  day  you  may  learn  to  write.  But  would 
you  mind  not  being  so  persistently  facetious  ? 
It  annoys  me  so.  Let  go  once  in  a  while  and 
be  natural.  See  how  it  feels.  Jones,  here's 
my  knife.  You're  always  borrowing  it, 
so  you  must  need  it  a  good  deal;  keep  it. 
Oh,  and  Lee  —  my  compliments  and  my 
paste-pot.  There !  You  can  dip  your  pen 
in  it  as  much  as  you  like  now.     See    here, 

[171] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


Berwin,"  —  he  picked  up  the  latter's  coat 
and  placed  it  on  his  own  table,  —  "won't 
push  it  off  any  more."  Then,  on  an  impulse, 
he  strode  down  to  where  one  of  the  younger 
reporters,  Linton,  stood  modestly  looking 
on  in  the  background.  "Didn't  you  wTite 
this  East  Side  dispossession  story.?"  he 
demanded  abruptly,  tapping  the  copy  of 
the  paper  in  his  hand.  The  cub,  somewhat 
overcome,  admitted  that  he  had.  "Thought 
I  recognized  your  fist  in  it.  Well,  all  Fve 
got  to  say  is  that  this  part  about  the  little 
girl  all  alone  on  the  doorstep  still  hugging  her 
doll  —  bully  !  —  great !  Wish  I  had  written 
that.  I  wish  — "  He  abruptly  turned  away 
again  and  called  to  Tommy.  "Oh,  never 
mind  the  rest.  You  can  have  the  stuff,  all 
of  it."  Then  he  added  to  the  boy,  "Don't 
know  just  how  I'm  going  to  get  along  without 
you.  Tommy.  No  one  else  knows  how  to 
fill  my  ink-well.  Always  put  in  too  much. 
Get  it  all  over  my  fingers." 

[172] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


t( 


Tommy  showed  signs  of  whimpering. 
You  an'  me  woiked  together  so  sHck, 
Mr.  Woods."  Then  to  demonstrate  that  f 
he  wasn't  dreaming  of  crying,  he  struck  the 
baseball  attitude  of  a  catcher  and  added, 
"Like   Bowerman   and   Mathewson." 

"That's  right,"  Woods  nodded.  "In  our 
palmy  days  we've  handled  some  pretty  good 
stories,  haven't  we.  Tommy .?  Remember 
the  Republican  convention,  how  you  had  to 
climb  over  the  shoulders  of  the  delegates  to 
get  my  copy  ?  But  you  got  it."  This  was 
a  little  too  much  for  the  boy,  who  could 
bluff  off  the  tears  no  longer.  "That's  all 
right,"  said  the  worshipful  Mr.  Woods, 
patting  him  on  the  back,  which  dislodged  the 
tears  and  made  place  for  fresh  ones.  And 
his  shame  being  exposed  to  the  world,  the 
boy  was  now  quite  shameless  and  opened 
his  heart  with  sniffles.  "De  poiper  can't 
get  along,"  he  spluttered,  "without  you," 
he  gulped,  "an'  me." 

[173] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"You  and  Mr.  Manning  will  make  out 
somehow,"  said  Woods,  comfortingly. 

Tommy  shook  his  head  vigorously. 
"Quittin'  at  the  end  of  me  week,"  he  replied, 
turning  away  toward  the  end  of  the  room 
where  he  belonged.  "I'm  goin'  to  ask  fur 
me  release." 

Woods  found  himself  confronting  Miss 
Daros,  whom  he  admired  professionally, 
despite  her  unpleasant  personality.  As  usual, 
he  was  impersonally  gallant  in  his  manner 
toward  her,  as  he  said,  "Miss  Daros,  you 
don't  show  me  your  verses  any  more.  So 
sorry." 

Miss  Daros  said  she  had  ceased  writing 
verses,  shot  a  glance  about  the  room  and 
saw  Henderson  watching  her  closely. 

"Miss  Daros,"  Woods  went  on,  "your 
stuff  is  one  of  the  features  of  the  paper. 
Keep  it  up  !  We  —  they  —  need  something 
serious  for  ballast." 

"Oh,  are  you  leaving  us?"  she  said  with 

[174] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


averted  gaze,  and  added  in  low  tones,  so  as 
not  to  be  overheard,  "before  you  even  read 
your  letters  ?" 

Woods  bov^ed  absently  and  turned  av^ay 
toward  the  men  he  had  worked  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  so  many  years,  all  his  news- 
paper life. 

"Don't  suppose  Til  see  much  of  you 
fellows  any  more,"  he  said.  "But  FU  see 
your  stuff  every  morning  anyway,"  he  added 
with  a  quick  nod.  "That's  the  next  best 
thing."  He  found  a  cigarette,  lighted  it, 
threw  down  the  match  and  nodded  again. 
"  Keep  on  reading  the  old  paper  —  you  can 
bank  on  that."  Then,  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  he  sauntered  up  the  room, 
whistling  thoughtfully,  and  turned  into  the 
enclosure  leading  to  the  managing  editor's 
office. 

The  door  was  ajar.  He  could  distinguish 
the  general's  voice,  more  excited  than  he  had 
ever  heard  it.     Suddenly  he  heard  it  more 

[175] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


strongly,  looked  up,  saw  the  door  open,  and 
Frances  hurriedly  crossing  the  passage  toward 
him,  followed  by  the  others,  walking  slowly, 
talking  fast. 


[176] 


It  was  the  first  time  they  had  seen  each 
other  in  the  thirteen  days  during  which  each 
had  thought  of  but  little  else,  and  that  little 
was  what  caused  them  to  be  brought  together 
at  last.  But  there  was  no  time  for  greetings. 
The  others  were  only  a  little  way  behind. 

"I  knew  you'd  come,"  she  whispered 
hastily  as  they  turned  toward  the  main  office 
together.  Her  eyes  were  wide,  her  cheeks 
flushed.  "I  brought  him  here.  It  was  to 
see  you."  Woods  stopped.  She  misunder- 
stood the  look  on  his  face.  "You  don't 
want  to  help  me!" 

"Want  to!"  It  happened  to  be  his 
dream  of  old.     "  But  I'm  too  late  again." 

"Ah!"  she  whispered,  impulsively  coming 
closer  to  him  with  sweet  confidence,  "  I  knew 
you  would  not  refuse  —  no  matter  what  you 

[177] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


might  think  of  m^,"  she  added,  dropping  her 
eyes.  "It's  not  too  late.  Father  will  ex- 
plain." 

The  general  was  excited  and  did  not  even 
see  Woods.  Gilbert  did,  and  hurried  to  the 
girl's  side.  "Then  deal  with  the  subject 
editorially,"  the  old  gentleman  was  demand- 
ing angrily,  as  Manning  coolly  nodded  assent 
with  a  quiet  smile,  "as  I  have  outlined"  — 
at  which  Manning,  still  smiling,  varied  his 
nod  with  a  shake  of  the  head  —  "or  else 
write  nothing,  nothing  whatever!"  The 
indignant  old  gentleman  swept  away  with 
a  gesture  of  disgust. 

"To  get  his  bill  signed  .?"  Woods  whis- 
pered, perplexed. 

"No.     He'll    explain,"    she    replied,    as 
Manning  made  answer  to  her  father,  some- 
what emphatically:  "We  shall  write  exactly 
what  we  see  fit.  General  Cunningham." 

The  general  stopped  short.  "What!" 
he   exclaimed    in    amazement.     Gilbert   was 

[178] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


trying   to  lead    Frances    away.     "We   must 
avoid  a  scene,"  he  whispered. 

"Suppose,"  the  managing  editor  replied 
to  the  glowing  general,  "suppose  we  were  to 
tell  the  patient  public  the  simple  truth  of 
what  has  taken  place  here  —  how  ex-Secre- 
tary Cunningham,  for  reasons  best  known 
to  himself,  at  the  eleventh  hour  comes  to  an 
unadmired  and  unadmiring  paper,  makes 
vague  insinuations  aganst  his  colleagues, 
when  too  late  for  investigation,  and,"  the 
editor  added  with  significant  force,  "  requests 
that  his  own  bill,  written  by  his  own  hand 


But  at  that  point  the  girl  intervened. 
Brushing  away  from  Gilbert,  she  quickly 
turned  her  father  about,  to  prevent  an  out- 
break. "No,  father,"  she  said  excitedly, 
"he's  come  back.     Here  he  is!" 

The  general  turned  toward  Woods  with 
an  eager  "Ah!" 

Manning,  too,  was  surprised  to  see  him, 

[  179] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


but  only  said  uncomfortably  to  the  general, 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  but — "  then  turning 
to  Woods  and  looking  still  more  ill  at  ease, 
for  he  was  fond  of  him,  "Left  word  to  see 
you  in  private,  Billy,"  he  said,  and  now 
produced  a  cablegram  from  his  pocket. 
He  turned  to  the  general  again.  "The  chief 
has  been  cabling  all  week,"  he  said,  "to  find 
Woods  and  put  him  on  this  very  story. 
This  is  his  last  cable."  Mr.  Manning 
handed  it  to  Woods,  who  read  it  in  silence, 
nodded,  passed  it  to  the  general,  and  turned 
away  from  Frances. 

The  general,  in  his  excitement,  read  it  aloud : 
"'When  Woods  returns,  dismiss  him.'" 

"'Fraid  that's  final,"  said  Manning. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  "Don't 
you  think  we'd  better  go.?"  said  Gilbert, 
gently,  taking  the  old  gentleman's  arm. 
"All  they  want  here  is  a  sensation  —  a 
*big  story'!"  He  was  too  considerate  to 
add,  "I  told  you  so." 

[i8o] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


"You  are  right,"  said  the  general,  turning 
away,  still  hot  and  excited,  his  voice  loud 
with  it.  "From  former  experience  I  should 
have  had  better  judgment  than  to  ask  a 
newspaper's  aid  —  this  one's  in  particular  — 
to  kill  my  bill!" 

Woods,  the  broken-hearted  dreamer  with 
bowed  head,  heard  this  and  straightened  up, 
suddenly  becoming  a  newspaper  man  again. 
"To  kill  the  bill!  Your  own  bill!  Is  that 
it?"  His  voice  was  strident,  authoritative; 
his  words  came  faster  and  faster:  "Why 
didn't  you  say  so !  My !  What  a  story ! 
Look  at  the  time !  There'll  be  a  dozen  men 
to  see,  a  score  of  records  to  look  up.  But" 
—  the  dreamer  shot  a  glance  at  Frances  — 
"oh,  what  a  chance!" 

They  were  coming  down  the  aisle,  all 
excited,  all  oblivious  of  the  gaping  reporters. 

Frances  put  in  to  Billy,  "  But,  if  you  are 
no  longer " 

"Not  for  this  paper,  for  any  other  paper, 
[i8i] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


for  no  paper,"  he  interrupted.  "  For  you,  sir. 
The  proof  is  all  you  want.  The  governor 
will  do  the  rest.  Just  give  me  the  chance. 
Aren't  you  going  to  give  me  a  chance  ?" 

The  general  walked  on  down  the  room. 
Gilbert  was  holding  the  gate  open  for  him. 
The  old  man  turned  and  looked  at  Woods. 
"No,"  he  said. 

Woods  rushed  through  after  him.  His 
voice  came  still  higher  now  and  his  words 
poured  out  more  rapidly.  "But  I  tell  you 
there's  no  one  in  all  New  York  who  knows 
that  gang  as  I  do  —  Til  dig  to  the  bottom  of 
their  deviltry  —  Fll  work  as  I  never  worked 
before  if  you'll  let  me  work  for  you,  sir  — 
I'll  block  your  bill  —  I'll  land  those  crooks 
\  in  Sing  Sing  where  I  put  their  pals  —  I'll 
keep  your  name  clear  and  clean  —  only  just 
let  me  try !" 

As  he  spoke,  he  saw  Frances  urging  her 
father  to  give  heed,  and  Gilbert  at  the  door 
urging  him  to  come.     The  general  now  spoke 

[182] 


IN   PARK  ROW 


for  himself.  He  was  still  greatly  overwrought. 
"Absent  from  duty  when  his  employers 
needed  him  most,  Frances.  Hardly  the  one 
to  trust  in  such  an  emergency."  He  went 
on  out  of  the  door,  Woods  following  franti- 
cally. The  girl  was  still  insistent.  "No!" 
repeated  the  old  man  with  finality.  "I 
never  believed  in  the  newspapers."  He 
made  for  the  stairs,  all  the  more  furious  for 
having  given  way  to  his  fury. 

Frances  lingered  near  the  doorway  to 
hold  out  her  hand  to  Woods.  "I  believe  in 
you,  Billy,"  she  whispered.  Then  Gilbert, 
sent  back  by  the  general  for  his  daughter, 
bore  the  girl  away  with  the  manner  of  one 
having  the  right  to  do  so,  and  a  reserved 
air  of  disdaining  to  express  in  words  his 
opinion  of  the  disgraceful  scene  for  which 
he  held  his  cousin  responsible,  and  against 
which  he  had  done  all  in  his  power  to  warn 
the  general. 

In  the  body  of  the  room  the  others  had 

[  183  ] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


already  got  down  to  work,  almost,  if  not 
quite,  as  if  nothing  extraordinary  had  hap- 
pened. Stone,  with  a  faint  smile  at  Haskill's 
previous  guilelessness  about  the  string  and 
the  general,  said  "How  about  it,  eh?"  and 
called  for  Henderson. 

"Looks  very  much  like  it,"  admitted 
Haskill. 

But  Woods,  forgetting  all  else,  was  still 
gazing  out  into  the  hall  where  Frances  had 
disappeared  with  Gilbert.  "He's  got  it 
all  V  —  the  dreamer  spoke  aloud  in  his  bitter 
abstraction  —  "And  I  —  I  can't  even  work 
for  her!" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can."  He  heard  the  low 
voice  of  Miss  Daros  passing  close  by  him 
on  the  way  out.     "Look  in  your  pocket." 

"What!"  asked  Woods,  still  dazed,  till  he 
found  the  note.  He  read  it  while  Stone,  in 
his  matter-of-fact  manner,  droned  on  to 
Henderson:  "We've  sent  Berwin  up  to 
Albany  to  try  the  governor;    Scott  to  see 

[184] 


IN  PARK  ROW 


property  holders;  so,  with  what  Manning 
and  I  got  out  of  him,  we  may  be  able  to  piece 
the  thing  together.  Henderson,  you've  got 
to  hustle,  but  it's  a  chance  to  make  your 
reputation  —  a  regular  Billy  Woods  story." 

The  note  said :  — 

Dear  Woods  :  The  gang  is  trying  to  do  old  man 
Cunningham  dirt.  You  are  the  only  man  who  can 
help  him  out,  I  guess.  I'll  give  you  the  tip  upon 
condition  you  handle  the  story  jot  our  paper,  and 
promise  not  to  put  the  old  man  wise  —  he  might 
give  it  away  and  spoil  our  heat  —  keep  quiet  about 
this,  in  any  case.     You'll  find  me  at  Andy's. 

Yours, 

H.  A.  Lascelles. 

Woods  had  bolted  down  the  stairs  two 
steps  at  a  time. 

Ten  minutes  later,  refusing  Lascelles's 
pressing  invitation  to  join  him  in  a  drink, 
at  Andy's,  Billy  was  studying,  in  the  light  of 
Lascelles's  meagre  information,  every  word 
and  letter  of  a  printed  copy  of  the  Cunningham 
bill. 

[185] 


PART    III 

AT   THE   OPERA 

I 

/^NE  of  the  brown-and-red  uniformed 
ushers  was  pacing  back  and  forth  along 
the  promenade  outside  the  lower  tier  of 
boxes,  with  his  usual  bored  expression.  As 
he  turned,  he  stopped  and  spread  his  arms  to 
obtain  the  full  benefit  of  the  yawn  he  was 
about  to  indulge  in.  But  before  he  had 
quite  finished,  he  was  interrupted  by  the 
sudden  burst  of  muffled  applause  and  orches- 
tration which  followed  the  high  finishing 
notes  of  the  soprano  and  tenor.  This 
meant  the  end  of  the  first  act,  and  it  meant 
that  he  must  get  busy.  So,  postponing  his 
yawn  for  another  time,  he  marched  resolutely 
[i86] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


to  his  duty,  which  was  to  stand  by  the  grand 
stairway  and  look  indifferent. 

With  the  opening  of  the  box  doors,  the  ap- 
plause and  the  orchestration  issued  stronger, 
almost  drowning  out  the  conversation  in  the 
boxes.  A  glimpse  of  the  brightly  lighted 
anterooms  of  the  boxes  was  given  outsiders ; 
here  and  there  a  table  with  flowers  on  it; 
ladies'  wraps;  men's  coats;  and  in  some 
cases  the  people  themselves  were  coming 
out  to  make  inter-box  visits. 

The  promenade  was  now  filled  with  people 
passing  and  repassing,  chattering,  bowing, 
smiling,  looking  at  one  another  and  in  some 
instances  even  talking  about  the  music. 

"Wasn't  Jean  just  heavenly!"  exclaimed 
a  young  girl. 

"  Ach !  more  musig  in  my  liddle  finger," 
returned  her  Teutonic  escort,  with  long  hair 
and  glittering  glasses  shaking  in  emphasis. 

"Mommer,  can  you  stick  it  out?"  queried 
an  anxious  daughter.     And  the  fat  mother 

[  187  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


answered  desperately,  "Til  try  to,  my  dear, 
for  your  sake,"  but  was  not  backed  up  by 
the  father,  who  put  in,  "Fm  damned  if  I 
will,''  and  started  for  the  stairway  so  abruptly 
that  he  bumped  into  another  group  of  prome- 
naders,  who  smoothed  their  ruffled  feathers 
haughtily. 

"  Commuters,"  remarked  one  of  these 
forgivingly.  "  Poor  things !  Must  catch 
their  train." 

"Did  you  hear  that!"  exclaimed  the 
indignant  daughter.  "Popper,  come  back! 
Mommer,  youVe  got  to  stand  your  headache." 
The  daughter  had  her  way,  as  in  many  of  our 
households,  the  parents  being  rewarded  for 
their  dutifulness  in  this  case  by  a  distant 
view  of  a  visiting  countess,  arriving  late  and 
resplendent  from  a  dinner.  Nobody  looked 
at  her  escort  or  the  rest  of  her  party,  and 
yet  they  swelled  with  greater  pride  than  the 
countess,  who  was  perhaps  more  used  to 
herself. 

[i88] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


Like  the  unfortunate  pater-familias  who 
had  brought  upon  his  house  the  reproach  of 
"commuter,"  there  were  others  who  had 
come  here,  not  for  music  nor  even  for  con- 
versation. Some  were  here  strictly  for  busi- 
ness. 

"That's  a  Paquin  model,"  whispered  one 
dressmaker  to  another. 

"Why  didn't  she  buy  hips  that  would  fit .?" 
was  the  reply.  They  did  not  even  pretend  to 
be  interested  in  the  little  stage.  All  through 
the  first  act  their  opera-glasses  were  pointed 
down  at  the  boxes,  quite  as  if  they  had  social 
aspirations. 

Prima  donnas  and  ushers  are  not  the  only 
ones  who  toil  at  the  opera.  Moving  in  and 
out  among  the  slow-sauntering  opera  crowd 
were  some  of  the  same  reporters  who  had 
paid  a  professional  visit  at  Fernleigh,  and  a 
half-dozen  others  besides. 

Shayne  and  Nordheimer  were  here,  too, 
presumably  not  for  the  fun  of  it,  though  they 

[189] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


looked  serene  and  social.  Shayne,  in  passing 
one  of  the  boxes,  made  a  gesture  which 
attracted  Nordheimer's  attention  to  it.  They 
passed  on,  unconscious  that  Murphy  and 
Munger  were  a  little  way  behind,  watching 
them  interestedly. 

Jerry  McCarter  was  also  present,  with 
his  wife,  a  serious  person  in  a  remarkable 
costume,  who  thought  she  was  walking  like 
a  woman  of  fashion.  He  was  humorously  con- 
scious of  his  new  dress  suit,  and  humorously 
unconscious  that  it  did  not  fit  in  the  back. 
He,  too,  pointed  out  the  same  box,  in  passing, 
and  Mrs.  Jerry  nodded  and  walked  a  little 
more  like  a  woman  of  fashion,  while  her  good 
man  strutted  and  laughed  at  her. 

Nearly  all  the  reporters  in  turn  applied  at 
the  door  of  this  same  interesting  box.  They 
were  answered  by  a  footman,  who  only  shook 
his  head  and  closed  the  door  again,  each 
time  a  little  more  emphatically. 

Sauntering  along  from  opposite  directions, 
[  190] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


Lascelles  and  Miss  Daros  met,  as  it  happened, 
not  far  from  this  door,  each,  as  it  chanced, 
idly  glancing  at  it  as  they  approached.  He 
bowed  and  joined  her  in  a  casual  man- 
ner. 

"Everything  all  right  .f"'  she  whispered  to 
him,  looking  elsewhere. 

"No!  Billy's  still  out  on  the  story,  tear- 
ing all  over  town,  working  against  time. 
Hasn't  landed  the  general  yet.  Munson 
says  he  tried  in  every  way  this  afternoon,  — 
telephone,  telegraph,  bribed  the  servants  at 
the  house,  sent  in  messengers  —  no  go ! 
He's  got  to  see  the  general  to-night,  or " 

"The  general's  in  there." 

"In  the  Townsend  box.'^"  Lascelles  had 
just  arrived.  "The  afternoon  papers  said 
the  old  man  was  sick  in  bed  —  has  nervous 
prostration." 

"But   he   has   a   daughter.     He   wants    a 


son-m 


■law." 


Don't   you   worry    about    that,"    smiled 

[191] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


Lascelles.  "To-morrow  you'll  have  Billy 
and  her  both  in  a  hole  —  different  holes." 

"Look  out!"  she  whispered,  and  turned 
away  quickly.  For  Henderson,  the  political 
reporter,  who  suspected  her  at  the  office,  was 
approaching  the  Townsend  box.  Lascelles 
made  a  sign  for  her  to  follow. 

His  daring  plan  was,  as  he  had  suggested 
to  Munson,  his  assistant  that  night  at  Fern- 
leigh,  to  obtain  by  means  of  Woods's  clever- 
ness the  complete  evidence  of  Shayne's  plot; 
then,  instead  of  turning  it  in  to  the  paper, 
to  sell  it  to  Shayne  and  skip  out  with  the 
proceeds. 

As  Lascelles  and  Miss  Daros  walked  down 
the  stairs,  Munson  joined  them. 

"Where's  Woods.?"  Lascelles  demanded 
when  they  reached  a  secluded  spot  away 
from  the  crowded  foyer. 

"Told  me  to  get  to  the  devil  out  of  his 
way  —  find  me  at  the  opera  if  he  wanted  me 
to  run  any  more  errands;  several  big  guns 
[  192  ] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


here  he's  still  got  to  bag.  Say !  you  ought  to 
've  seen  him  with  the  others !  —  bluffs  'em, 
jollies  'em,  scares  'em  —  never  saw  such  a 
man !  Lawyers  and  everybody  been  open- 
ing up  for  him." 

"Say,Munson,"  asked  Lascelles,  "what  are 
all  the  commissioners  doing  here,  anyway  ^  " 

"That's  the  beauty  of  it!  Don't  you 
catch  on  to  what  he's  done  ?  Saw  he  could 
never  round  up  the  whole  bunch  in  half  a 
day  —  none  of  'em  anxious  to  meet  him, 
anyway  —  what  did  he  do  ^  Started  an 
underground  rumor  that  threw  a  scare  into 
Shayne  and  Nordheimer;  they've  come  here 
to  keep  an  eye  on  the  general;  Murphy  and 
Munger  to  watch  them  —  so  he  has  every- 
body here  watching  everybody  else !  Isn't 
it  lovely?" 

"Nobody  but  Billy  could  have  done  that," 
commented  Miss  Daros. 

"Huh!  But  if  he  can't  clinch  the  story 
by  means  of  the  general's  side  of  it,"  put  in 

[193] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


Lascelles,    less    enthusiastically,    "where    do 
we  stand  with  Shayne?'' 

Munson  said,  "Well,  anyhow,  you  can  at 
least  threaten  to  print  what  you  overheard 
that  night  up  at  Fernleigh." 

"And  how  much  did  I  overhear?"  asked 
Lascelles,  sarcastically. 

" '  It's  such  a  little  thing  —  they'll  never 
discover  it,'"  repeated  Munson,  glibly,  "and 
*the  old  man's  no  proof-reader!'  Just  say 
that  to  'em  and  see  'em  jump!" 

"But  what  does  that  mean?" 

"It  might  mean  —  anything  !" 

"Yes  —  or  nothing,"  put  in  Miss  Daros. 

"And  that's  exactly  what  they  told  me," 
remarked  Lascelles,  grinning,  to  the  young 
woman. 

"You  tried  it!"   Munson  exclaimed. 

"Yesterday,  when  we  gave  up  Woods  for 
lost  —  and  got  kicked  out  of  the  place  for 
it,    threatened    with    a    suit    for    blackmail. 
There's  no  evidence  in  that." 
[  194] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


"Only  bluffing,"  said  Munson,  senten- 
tiously.  "They'll  pay  a  good,  stiff  price  all 
right,  to  keep  what  evidence  Woods  has  got 
by  this  time  out  of  the  paper." 

"  But,  can't  you  see,"  exclaimed  Lascelles, 
querulously,  "they'll  pay  a  hundred  times 
more  to  keep  themselves  out  of  Sing  Sing ! 
Don't  you  understand,  if  Billy  can  only  get 
proof  of  criminal  intent,  and  we  hold  it  up 
before  their  eyes  —  in  black  and  white ! 
Why,  man  alive,  we've  got  'em  where  we  can 
get  anything,  anything!" 

"Billy  may  be  able  to  work  the  general,'* 
put  in  Miss  Daros,  "  but  how  are  you  going  to 
work  him?  When  he  gets  back  to  your 
office  with  the  story,  I  mean.  Remember,  he 
is  as  quick  as  a  steel  trap  to  catch  on  to 
anything  crooked!" 

"Not  when  he's  writing  a  big  story." 

"He's  dead  to  the  world  then,"  concurred 
Munson.  "You've  seen  him  yourself.  Miss 
Daros." 

[195] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


"But  there's  your  night  editor,"  objected 
Miss  Daros,  "one  of  the  keenest  and  straight- 
est  men  in  New  York." 

Lascelles  laughed.  "Doesn't  even  know 
Woods  has  joined  us !  Billy  was  so  anxious 
to  get  busy,  he  didn't  stop  to  come  up  to  the 
office,  didn't  even  mention  salary.  And  I've 
arranged  for  him  to  write  his  story  in  my 
private  office.  What  did  I  rent  a  private 
office  for,  anyway!" 

"And  afterward  .^"  asked  the  girl. 

"That's  a  cinch,"  said  Munson,  smiling 
oddly  to  Lascelles. 

"But  how  are  you  going  to  work  it?" 
Miss  Daros  was  insistent. 

"Oh,  there  are  a  dozen  ways,"  said  Las- 
celles, easily.  "Something  unpleasant,  if 
necessary." 

Miss  Daros  was  startled. 

"Only  until  to-morrow  when  the  bill  gets 
through,  you  understand,"  Munson  put 
in. 

[196] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


Miss  Daros  was  thinking  about  it.  "But, 
when  he  wakes  up  ?"  she  asked. 

"We'll  be  sailing  down  the  Bay  on  the 
Cedricr 

"And  Billy?" 

Lascelles  misunderstood  her  hesitation. 
"Do  you  think  anybody's  going  to  believe 
his  explanation  ?"  he  demanded  impatiently. 
"  Everything  will  be  dead  against  him." 

"If  I  know  Woods,"  remarked  Munson, 
"he'll  disappear  from  New  York  again  and 
never  peep !" 

"What  difference  does  it  make  to  us," 
said  Lascelles,  who  was  less  speculative. 
"We'll  be  out  of  reach  —  if  we  only  get  the 
whole  story  to-night !  "  He  broke  off  impa- 
tiently. "Now,  then,"  he  said  to  Miss  Daros, 
"it's  up  to  me  to  connect  with  Shayne.  You 
keep  your  eye  on  the  Townsend  box.  Mun- 
son, get  in  touch  with  Woods."  They  sepa- 
rated. Lascelles  was  the  only  one  of  the 
three    playing    coldly   for    money.     Munson 

[197] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


had  succumbed  to  him,  but  could  not  forget 
the  romance  of  the  adventure.  And  the 
woman  in  the  case  was  there  with  what 
brings  women  into  most  cases,  sometimes  to 
the  upsetting  of  well-laid  plans. 

The  bell  had  rung,  the  passing  crowd  had 
disappeared,  the  box  doors  had  slammed, 
the  music  had  begun  again,  and  the  usher 
had  his  yawn. 


[198] 


II 


Meanwhile  Henderson,  who  was  ap- 
proaching the  Townsend  box  when  Miss 
Daros  spied  him,  had  turned  away  at  seeing 
one  of  the  other  reporters  there  handing  in  a 
note  which  was  straightway  handed  back, 
unopened.  This  rebuff,  by  the  way,  struck 
the  young  reporter  who  made  the  attempt 
as  so  eminently  right  and  reasonable  that 
he  fled  the  place,  flushing  with  shame  and 
hating  himself  and  everybody  in  sight. 
That  night  he  wrote  home  that  he  had 
decided  to  give  up  his  hterary  ambitions  and 
would  study  law,  as  his  father  wanted  him 
to  do. 

That  was  not  the  way  Henderson  looked 
at  the  matter.  He  had  been  in  the  business 
many  years.     When  such  disagreeable  con- 

[199] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


tingencies  arose  —  which,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, were  less  frequent  than  the  opposite 
attitude  of  trying  to  "  get  into  the  papers  " 
—  he  met  them  quite  impersonally. 

Now,  Henderson  had  in  his  pocket  the 
proof  of  an  editorial  which  it  was  very  im- 
portant to  bring  to  the  attention  of  General 
Cunningham.  It  was  impersonally  impor- 
tant from  the  point  of  view  of  a  dealer  in 
news.  It  was  still  more  important  personally, 
from  the  point  of  view  of  General  Cunning- 
ham, whose  political  moves  had  more  than 
once  been  questioned.  Henderson  proposed 
to  give  the  irascible  old  gentleman  a  chance 
to  state  his  side  of  the  present  question. 

So  he  turned  away,  planning  how  to  work 
it,  and  presently  came  back  with  an  inspi- 
ration and  the  brown-and-red  uniformed 
usher.  The  latter  was  aroused  into  wake- 
fulness by  no  greater  noise  than  the  crinkhng 
sound  of  a  new  dollar  bill.  Henderson 
also     handed     him     the     long    proof-sheet, 

[  200  ] 


-if 


AT   THE    OPERA 


folded  and  superscribed  with  a  brief  request 
for  instructions  as  to  the  general's  pleasure 
in  the  matter.  The  usher  went  in  and  Hen- 
derson awaited  results.     They  came  quickly. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  fast-fatiguing 
footman,  and  Gilbert  Townsend  appeared. 
He  was  furious  and  showed  it  by  hurling 
the  proof  doubled  up  into  a  wad,  at  Hender- 
son's feet.  Then,  threatening  the  usher 
with  the  loss  of  his  position,  Gilbert  retired 
without  another  glance  at  the  reporter,  and 
the  door  closed  and  clicked  with  quiet 
eloquence. 

While  this  was  going  on,  still  another 
reporter  appeared,  walking  in  a  hurry.  It 
was  Woods,  looking  preoccupied.  He  seemed 
as  little  aware  of  his  incongruity  with  the 
slow-pacing  opera  crowd  as  he  was  oblivious 
of  not  being  dressed  in  evening  clothes.  He 
caught  a  view  of  Henderson  in  the  act  of 
sending  in  the  proof-sheet  by  the  usher. 

It  made  him  stop  abruptly,  with  a  gesture 
[201  ] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


r 


of  annoyance,  for  he  knew  it  would  not  work 
and  would  only  make  his  own  task  more 
difficult.  So,  without  stopping  to  see  it 
fail,  he  dashed  on  after  a  tall,  ascetic-looking 
man,  with  a  bald  head,  catching  him  just 
as  he  was  about  to  enter  another  box. 

"Judge  Lansing,"  he  said,  disarming 
hostility  with  a  smile,  a  shrug,  and  a  shake 
of  the  head,  "it's  simply  criminal  to  bother 
you  here,  but  Fm  afraid  I'll  have  to  ask  you 
to  talk  shop  a  moment  —  about  a  certain 
decision  of  yours  in  '92."  Woods  knew, 
or  rather  felt,  that  the  judge  was  the  sort 
who  responded  best  to  what  Billy's  friends 
termed  his  "refined,  ingenue  manner."  It 
was  hardly  premeditated,  however;  there 
was  not  time  for  premeditation.  Pacing  to 
the  end  of  the  promenade  and  the  back, 
Billy  got  some,  if  not  all,  of  what  he  wanted, 
and  thanking  the  scholarly  personage  at 
the  latter's  box  door  —  he  went  on. 

The  important  part  of  the  work  was  still  to 
[  202  ] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


be  performed,  and  there  was  not  much  time 
left  for  it.  He  had  been  obHged  to  con- 
sume two  valuable  hours  of  his  time  at  the 
start,  in  finding  a  starting-point.  All  he  had 
to  go  on  was  not  a  very  definitely  suggestive 
sentence  or  two  from  an  overheard  conver- 
sation —  plus  the  conviction,  which  he  had 
already  formed,  that  there  was  a  nigger  in 
the  woodpile  somewhere.  He  might  never 
have  stumbled  upon  the  theory  that  he  was 
now  working  on  confidently,  though  blindly,  if 
there  had  not  flashed  into  his  mind  a  "story" 
telegraphed  to  the  papers  some  time  before, 
from  a  Western  state  capital.  It  was  to  the 
effect  that  a  murderer's  life  had  been  spared 
owing  to  a  typographical  error.  A  little 
investigation  and  his  layman's  knowledge 
of  the  law  showed  him  what  he  was  hunting 
for  in  the  general's  bill.  But  it  was  one  thing 
to  be  morally  certain,  and  another  to  adduce 
proof,  and  the  evening  was  no  longer  young. 
Woods  had  just  arrived  and  Judge  Lansing 
[203] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


was  but  one  of  those  he  had  to  see  at  the 
opera.  He  hurried  out  upon  the  street  and 
around  the  block  to  the  stage  entrance, 
famiharly  saluted  his  old  friend,  the  door- 
keeper, and  soon  found  his  way  past  drops 
and  properties,  through  a  bevy  of  gossiping 
chorus  women,  under  the  stage,  with  its 
many  ropes,  wires,  cogwheels,  trap-doors  and 
trolleys,  to  where  the  electrician  sat  on  a 
high  stool  like  a  bicycle  seat.  It  was  in 
a  place  like  a  rifle  pit,  with  a  switchboard 
bigger  than   a  grand   piano. 

There  was  another  man  there,  at  first,  and 
several  minutes  had  to  be  wasted  in  talk 
about  things  Woods  was  not  interested  in, 
though  pretending  to  be  —  so  often  neces- 
sary. "  We  think  we  know  something  about 
making  gauzes  in  this  country  —  bah  !  Can't 
touch  Germany.  Every  good  gauze  on  this 
stage  is  from  Germany,"  and  so  on. 

"Well,  Mr.  Woods,"  said    the  electrician 
on  his  stool,  "what  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 
[204] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


"Only  want  to  see  how  the  audience  looks 
from  here,"  said  Billy,  adjusting  a  pair 
of  binoculars,  borrowed  on  the  way.  He 
located  the  various  faces  in  half  the  time  it 
would  have  taken  to  find  them  otherwise. 
He  saw  that  his  audacious  ruse,  born  of 
desperation,  had  succeeded  in  what  he  had 
hoped  for,  namely,  in  bringing  most  of  them 
together  where  he  could  get  at  them;  but 
whether  or  not  it  would  be  of  any  avail  was 
another  question.  He  went  back  to  the 
foyer  once  more. 


[205] 


Ill 

The  venerable  ex-secretary  was  in  no 
mood  for  enjoying  the  music  or  the  other 
noises  of  the  opera,  but  he  scarcely  heard 
them.  Everything  outside  of  his  troubled 
mind  was  like  the  unimportant  buzzing  of 
persistent  flies  to  a  fever  patient.  Indeed, 
it  was  contrary  to  his  physician's  first  advice 
that  the  engagement  to  attend  this  benefit 
with  the  Townsends  was  not  broken.  When 
the  nerve-specialist  saw  how  determined 
the  old  gentleman  was  to  carry  out  the  plan, 
however,  he  humored  him,  saying  that  the 
music  and  the  people  might  divert  his  mind 
from  worry,  knowing  that  his  patient  would 
not  be  able,  in  any  case,  to  take  the  rest 
prescribed  for  him  until  sea  air  and  change 
of  scene  had  produced  their  effect;  if,  that 
is,  the  general  could  be  persuaded  to  sail  at 
[206] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


all,  for  he  now  seemed  inclined  to  postpone 
his  start  indefinitely.  This,  Dr.  Strange 
declared  to  Mrs.  Metcalfe  and  the  general's 
daughter,  might  produce  results  of  the  most 
serious  nature. 

All  the  afternoon,  contrary  to  newspaper 
reports,  the  harassed  old  gentleman  had  been 
in  consultation  with  his  lawyers  and  advisers. 
He  had  held  long-distance  conversations  by 
telephone  with  the  governor.  He  had  sought 
telegraphic  advice  from  certain  high  author- 
ities at  Washington.  All  to  no  purpose. 
And  now  he  was  sitting  bolt  upright  in  the 
Townsend  box,  staring  straight  ahead  of 
him  at  nothing,  while  his  daughter,  who 
would  not  leave  his  side,  watched  his  face 
anxiously.  This  only  worried  him  the  more, 
for  it  was  not  what  he  had  brought  her  there 
for,  when  she  declared  her  intention  of  giving 
up  the  opera  to  stay  home  with  him. 

More  than  once  he  begged  her  to  join  the 
others  in  the  front  of  the  box  and  enjoy  the 
[207] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


evening  as  young  people  should.  But  even 
Mrs.  Metcalfe's  adroit  manoeuvring  could 
not  effect  this.  At  last,  soon  after  the  begin- 
ning of  the  second  act,  the  anxious  aunt, 
in  desperation,  simulated  the  symptoms  of 
giddiness  and  beckoned  Frances  and  Gilbert 
to  accompany  her  out  into  the  promenade 
for  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  w^hich  she  said 
would  refresh  her  in  a  moment. 

Despatching  Gilbert  to  the  nearest  drug- 
store for  a  certain  powder  that  would  cure 
her  headache,  she  put  the  case  plainly  to 
her  young  unworldly  niece.  There  was  no 
time  now  to  mince  matters,  and  she  tried, 
as  kindly  as  she  could,  to  make  the  thought- 
less girl  see  the  danger  of  her  persistently 
inconsiderate  treatment  of  Gilbert. 

"Don't  'ask  me  to  think  about  Gilbert 
now,"  begged  Frances,  "with  father  in  there 
looking  Hke  that." 

"My  dear  child,  why  is  he  here?"  Mrs. 
Metcalfe  exclaimed.  "Why  did  he  make 
[208] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


you  read  that  last  telegram  from  the  gov- 
ernor ?  Don't  you  understand  ?  Can't  you 
see !  When  this  dreadful  bill  goes  through 
it  may  be  too  late.  Your  father's  name  may 
be  smirched.  Think  of  it !  Think  of  the 
uproar !  Think  of  the  effect  upon  Gilbert ! 
To  put  it  plainly,  my  little  niece,  unless 
your  engagement  is  announced  this  evening, 
as  your  father  and  I  had  arranged  —  don't 
you   see?" 

"  But  there's   nothing  to   announce  ! " 

"Your  father  believes  it's  only  a  lover's 
quarrel  —  didn't  you  ask  Gilbert  to  sail  with 
you  to-morrow  ? " 

"  But  during  the  past  two  awful  weeks  — 
how  could  I  burden  his  mind  with  my  little 
troubles?"  Then,  impetuously  turning  to 
the  box,  she  exclaimed:  "Oh,  Fll  explain 
the  whole  thing  now  and  have  it  over 
with." 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  restrained  her.  "Wait," 
she  said  warningly.  "Remember  what  Dr. 
[209] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


Strange  said  about  his  heart.  Any  sudden 
shock  to-night  —  Frances,  it  would  never 
do!" 

"Then  tell  me  what  I  can  do,"  cried  the 

girl. 

"Be  nice  to  Gilbert.  Here  he  comes." 
And,  turning  to  him,  she  said  in  her 
normal  tone:  "Thank  you,  dear  Gilbert. 
I'm  quite  myself  again."  And  added  sig- 
nificantly: "So  is  Frances.  Aren't  you, 
my  dear .?  We've  both  been  so  distressed 
about  the  general."  Which  reminded  her 
that  it  was  time  to  go  back  to  him.  And, 
slipping  quickly  into  the  box,  she  left  the 
two  young  people  together. 

They  were  not  very  much  at  ease  in  each 
other's  presence.  Gilbert  had  done  all  in 
his  power  to  be  of  aid  and  sympathy  to  her 
father,  and  she  had  treated  him  hardly  civilly. 
He  had  given  up  most  of  his  time  during 
the  past  two  weeks  and  many  important 
engagements  in  order  to  be  with  the  general, 
[210] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


even  when  unaccompanied  by  his  daughter. 
And,  for  thanks,  she  was  making  a  fool  of 
him.  He  was  wilHng  to  sacrifice  much  for 
her  sake;  for  instance,  he  had  no  thought 
of  withdrawing  from  the  field  now  that  scan- 
dal was  impending,  —  as,  it  seemed  to  him, 
many  men  would  do,  —  but  he  was  wounded 
that  she  should  take  it  all  so  complacently, 
and  express  her  appreciation  by  snubbing 
him  publicly. 

Of  course,  he  spurned  the  thought  of  re- 
proaching her  with  this,  but  if  anything  were 
to  be  said  to  break  the  awkward  silence  as 
they  hesitated  by  the  door,  it  was  clearly 
not  his  part  to  make  the  first  advance.  For, 
if  he  were  to  do  so,  would  it  not  be  received 
with  the  same  heartless  inconsiderateness 
which  had  marked  her  attitude  all  through 
the  afternoon  since  saying  good-by  with 
such  unnecessary  effusiveness  to  his  cousin 
at  the  conclusion  of  that  unpleasant  scene 
which  he  had  done  all  in  his  power  to  pre- 
[211] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


vent  ?  Gilbert  maintained  a  polite  reserve, 
smiling  at  her,  not  unkindly. 

Frances,  feeling  the  silence,  and  seeing 
that  nothing  was  coming  of  her  resolution 
to  be  nice,  turned  with  a  sudden  impulse  to 
the  door  of  the  box. 

"May  I  ask  why  you  are  going.?"  sub- 
mitted  Gilbert,   urbanely. 

"To  join  the  others,"  she  replied  with 
matter-of-factness. 

He  bowed  and  held  the  door  open  for  her. 
Then,  without  following,  he  bowed  once 
more  and  said  quietly:  "I  shall  *join  the 
others'  later." 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  inquired, 
smiling  to  soften  the  stiffness  of  their  mutual 
attitude,  which  impressed  her  as  being  rather 
absurd. 

"Oh,  I'm  merely  going  to  cancel  my 
state-room.  It  will  take  only  a  moment  by 
telephone." 

Frances  came  out  of  the  anteroom  quickly. 
[212] 


AT   THE    OPERA 


"No,  no,  no!"  she  cried  excitedly.  "Don't, 
Gilbert.  Please  don't  do  that."  She  caught 
him  by  the  arm. 

The  eager  change  in  her  manner  misled 
him.  She  was  very  young  and  she  hardly 
knew  her  own  mind.  But  perhaps  her  heart 
knew  its  desires,  even  when  she  did  not. 
The  imminence  of  that  year  without  him, 
betrayed  her  true  feelings.  He  ventured  to 
inquire,  with  delicate  circumlocution,  whether 
he  might  flatter  himself  that  such  was  the  case. 

It  would  have  been  an  easy  thing  to  say, 
"Come  and  see."  If  it  had  been  merely 
the  duel  of  sex,  with  the  desire  to  bring  an- 
other man  to  her  feet,  she  might  have  been 
tempted  to  try  something  of  the  sort.  But, 
in  this  case,  it  was  so  different  that  the  thought 
revolted  her.  "  I'm  afraid  it  isn't  that  exactly, 
Gilbert,"  she  said,  with  more  embarrass- 
ment than  he  had  ever  seen  in  her  manner 
before.  "Father  thinks  so,  though,"  she 
added,  with  a  little  laugh  to  hide  her  nervous- 

[213] 


THE    DAY-DREA.MER 


ness,  which  her  twisting  fingers  uncovered. 
"I  was  just  thinking,  couldn't  we  —  just 
for  a  little  longer  —  let  him  keep  on  thinking 
so  ?  —  till  this  nightmare  is  over.  Would 
that   be   asking  too   much,   Gilbert.?" 

Gilbert  only  stared  at  her  in  astonishment. 
"Dear  old  father,"  she  went  on,  in  distress, 
"you  know  how  harassed  he  is  already. 
Only  till  he's  rested,  on  the  steamer  ^ 
Would  you  mind  very  much  ?" 

Gilbert's  jaw  was  set.  "Oh,  I  know  it 
isn't  fair  to  you,"  she  went  on.  "I  don't 
know  what  you  will  think  of  me  for  asking 
it.  But  don't  you  see  —  oh,  I'm  in  a  dread- 
ful fix!"  she  broke  out  girlishly.  "You  see, 
I  gave  father  a  wrong  impression  about  us 
up  at  Fernleigh.  I'm  afraid  you  helped  do 
it  yourself,  Gilbert,  unintentionally.  And 
now,  you  see.  Dr.  Strange  said  this  afternoon 
that  any  sudden  shock  —  oh,  Gilbert,  do 
help  me  out !  Just  be  generous  and  sail 
with  us  to-morrow." 

[2H] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


No  one  could  accuse  him  of  lacking  in 
generosity.  But  though  he  daily  received 
demands  upon  it,  of  many  varieties,  this 
v^as  a  kind  of  generosity  he  had  never  been 
obliged  to  consider.  And,  he  thought,  any 
man  w^ould  hesitate  to  accede  to  such  an  un- 
reasonable request  under  the  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances, and  coming  as  it  did  upon  the 
sudden  toppling  of  high  hope.  The  thought- 
less beauty  clearly  did  not  recognize  what 
she  v^as  asking.  But  Gilbert  did  not  refuse 
point  blank,  as  some  men  might  have 
done. 

"That,"  he  replied,  temporizing,  "v^ould 
be  equivalent  to  announcing  we're  engaged. 
All  our  friends  think  so,  you  know." 

"  But  if  you  come  back  alone,"  began  the 
girl,  naively,  and  Gilbert  interrupted,  "To 
announcing  that  I  am  thrown  over." 

"Well,  you'd  do  even  that  for  father  — 
and  me,  wouldn't  you?"  she  asked,  with 
girlish  faith.     For  had  he  not  declared  again 

[215] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


and  again  that  he  would  make  any  sacrifice 
for  her  sake  ? 

Gilbert  had  a  vision  of  what  people  would 
say  —  how  some  men  and  women  he  hated 
would  laugh  at  him  behind  his  back;  how 
certain  scurrilous  journals  would  comment 
upon  the  futility  of  his  infatuation,  somewhat 
as  they  had  impudently  done  before  in  regard 
to  his  movements  in  other  matters.  He  was 
a  personage,  a  man  prominent  in  the  public 
gaze.  He  had  more  dignity  to  maintain 
than  most  men  of  his  age. 

She  was  pleading  with  him,  holding  out 
the  beautiful  hands  in  her  unconscious  earnest- 
ness. "Oh,  Gilbert  —  please!  I  can't  prom- 
ise anything.  That  wouldn't  be  right.  You 
wouldn't  want  me  to  until  I  care  for  you 
enough,  would  you  ?  But,  if  you  will  only 
come  — "  Something  made  her  stop  abruptly 
and  she  added,  modulating  the  new  tone  in 
her  voice,  unsuccessfully:  "Perhaps  you're 
right,  after  all,  Gilbert.     It  is  a  good  deal  to 

[216] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


ask  of  you  —  to  ask  of  any  man,"  she  added, 
as  if  fearing  she  had  accented  the  pronoun. 
"Go  and  cancel  your  steamer." 

Gilbert,  who  had  been  scowling  at  the 
floor,  looked  up  quickly  at  her  sudden  change, 
and,  following  the  direction  of  her  gaze,  he 
saw  approaching  from  the  stairway  his 
cousin,  the  reporter,  in  jovial  conversation 
with  Jerry  McCarter. 

"No!"  Gilbert  exclaimed  resolutely.  "I 
will  do  what  you  really  wish !  —  I  will  sail 
with  you  in  the  morning."  As  he  spoke, 
he  opened  the  box  door,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing for  her  to  do  but  to  pass  in  as  he  bowed 
with  courtly  grace. 


[217] 


IV 


Woods,  adapting  himself  as  usual  to  the 
person  in  hand,  was  saying  in  a  laughing 
voice,  as  if  without  a  care  in  the  world,  and 
as  if  he  had  all  the  evening  to  gossip  in : 
"Well,  those  were  great  old  days,  Jerry. 
Remember  when  you  got  that  first  saloon  of 
your  own  over  on  Avenue  A  ?  Used  to  pull 
off  fights  in  the  room  upstairs." 

"Called  it  an  athhtic  club,  Billy,"  chuckled 
McCarter,  with  a  dig  in  his  young  friend's 
ribs,  who,  he  did  not  notice,  was  glancing 
here  and  there,  and  looked  perplexed  as  they 
approached  the  Townsend  box.  "Athlitic 
club !  Didn't  cut  much  ice  when  we  got 
pulled  by  the  Reform  administration  \"  The 
jovial  McCarter  laughed  heartily  at  the  recol- 
lection.    "Say!     Wouldn't  it  jar  these  real 

[218] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


things  here  if  they  knew!"  he  added,  with 
a  humorous  glance  at  his  clothes. 

"What  do  you  think  you're  doing  here 
anyway?"    inquired    Woods,    banteringly. 

McCarter  made  answer:  "The  auld 
woman  —  she's  after  buttin'  into  sassiety  — 
wants  me  to  inthroduce  her  to  me  mash, 
Mrs.  Metcalfe."  He  pointed  at  the  Town- 
send  box,  interrupting  himself  with  a  snort 
of  laughter.  "A  foine  woman,  that,  Billy, 
for  all  she's  so  hoity-toity;  though  Oi'm 
thinkin'  Oi  loike  the  young  one  better.  And 
so  do  you,  eh  .?  Oh,  Oi  had  me  eye  on  ye 
up  there  at  our  sworay.  Say,  what  d'ye 
think  of  me  dress  suit,   Billy.?" 

"Beauty,"  said  Woods,  glancing  at  his 
watch.     "Why  don't  you  buy  one.?" 

"Ah,  g'wan!"  laughed  McCarter,  and 
gave  his  smiling  companion  a  playful  push. 
"Don't  ye  be  puttin'  that  in  the  paper  now, 
moind." 

"Huh!"  interjected  Woods,  suddenly 
[219]     . 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


serious.     "That  shows  I  was  right.     I  thought 
they  hadn't  let  you  in  on  it." 

"In  on  what  ?"  McCarter  was  impressed 
by  his  young  friend's  tone,  and  stopped. 

"Well,"  said  Woods,  smiling  thoughtfully, 
"there  is  something  I  am  going  to  put  in  the 
paper,  Jerry."  He  looked  at  McCarter 
frankly.  "Something  those  higher  up  won't 
like." 

"Ain't  they  been  on  the  level  wid  me .?" 
Jerry  exclaimed.  "What's  doin',  Billy? 
What's  doin'?" 

"Suppose  you  tell  me  first,  what  made  you 
and  Murphy  so  hot  for  the  Cunningham 
bill." 

McCarter  hesitated.  "Say,  me  bye,  ye 
nivver  went  back  on  a  frind  yit." 

"What's  in  it  for  you  fellows  ?"  said  Woods. 

"Well  now,  it  was  loike  this,"  Jerry  began 

as  they  walked  on.     "One  day,  Jake  Shayne 

he  says  to  me  one  day,  'Jerry,'  says  he,  *you 

want  that  bye  of  yours  on  the  po-lice,'  says 

[  220  ] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


he.  'Sure,'  says  I;  'it's  the  way  ye  began 
yerself,'  I  says.  'Well,'  says  he,  *I  guess  I 
can  fix  it  for  ye  if  ye  back  th'  giniral  an'  his 
bill,'  he  says." 

Once  started,  McCarter  talked  freely,  for 
he  knew  it  was  the  safest  thing  to  do  with 
Woods. 

Meanwhile  there  were  others  in  the  great 
building  who  were  neglecting  their  musical 
opportunities.  Shayne  and  Nordheimer,  to 
escape  the  reporters,  had  slipped  across  the 
street  for  a  quiet  talk  in  one  of  the  back 
rooms  of  Kid  McCoy's  cafe.  They  had  been 
followed  there  by  Lascelles,  and  now,  having 
rid  themselves  of  his  unwelcome  company, 
came  back  to  the  opera  somewhat  excitedly. 

"  Don't  worry  about  him  —  he's  a  loafer," 
said  Shayne,  relapsing  into  the  vernacular 
in  his  excitement. 

"But    he    says- " 

"Tell  him  if  he  opens  his  head  again  he'll 
be  up  against  a  suit  for  blackmail." 
[221  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"Don't  you  think  he  knows  anything?'' 
asked  Nordheimer. 

"Nothing  he  can  make  any  use  of,"  re- 
turned Shayne,  with  confidence.  "SimpHcity 
of  the  thing  is  what  bhnds  'em  all."  They 
had  stopped  and  were  hovering  near  the 
Townsend  box  — perhaps  because  of  the  hint 
they  had  received  during  the  afternoon  that 
something  would  be  "doing"  this  evening; 
perhaps  because  of  a  similar  fascination  to 
that  which  murderers  are  said  to  feel. 

In  any  case,  Nordheimer,  less  experienced 
than  his  pal,  and  less  courageous  by  nature, 
was  frightened. 

Shayne  laughed  at  him.  "Brace  up," 
he  said,  slapping  him  on  the  back.  "Only 
a  few  hours  more,  old  man." 

"Hours!"  returned  Nordheimer.  "Seems 
more  like  years.     Haven't  slept  for  a  week." 

Shayne,  staring  straight  ahead  of  him, 
stopped   abruptly   and   ejaculated:    "Hell!" 

"What.?"  asked  Nordheimer. 
[  222  ] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


"Woods!*'  whispered  Shayne. 

Nordheimer  was  for  turning  in  the  op- 
posite direction.  Shayne  restrained  him. 
"Don't  give  yourself  away,"  he  sneered. 
"  BlufF  it  out !  You're  not  afraid  of  a  re- 
porter."    And   they   sauntered   on   casually. 

Woods,  walking  briskly,  came  forward 
toward  them,  with  his  head  down  as  if  not 
aware  of  their  presence  until  quite  near 
them,  when,  suddenly  shooting  an  accusing 
finger  into  Nordheimer's  face,  he  cried  in 
a  voice  that  seemed  horribly  loud  to  them: 
"Who  took  out  that  comma  ?" 

Both  men  made  reply  at  once.  "  'Sh ! 
What  comma?"  said  Shayne.  "General 
Cunningham!"  said  Nordheimer,  while 
Shayne  was  adding,  "What  are  you  talking 
about,   anyway.?" 

"Too  late,"  said  Woods,  laughing  at  Shayne 

and  pointing  at  Nordheimer,  who  in  panic 

had  stepped  back  from  his  strident  accuser. 

Shayne,  with  the  quick  instincts  of  bluffing, 

[223] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


stepped  forward  boldly,  saying,  "If  there  has 
been  a  typographical    error " 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Nordheimer,"  remarked 
Woods,  stepping  between  them.  "That 
proves  my  theory,  Mr.  Shayne.  Been  work- 
ing on  it  rather  blindly  heretofore." 

With  contemptuous  indignation,  Shayne 
demanded  the  meaning  of  all  this  nonsense, 
making  signs  to  Nordheimer,  meanwhile, 
to  brace  up.  Nordheimer,  emulating  his 
chief's  manner,  not  very  successfully,  bel- 
lowed:  "What  in  hell  are  you  talking 
about?" 

"About  an  old  forgotten  statute,"  returned 
Woods,  again,  with  such  sudden  fierceness 
that  Nordheimer  once  more  showed  signs 
of  wilting.  "See.?"  said  Woods,  smiling  at 
Shayne,  "even  Nordheimer  knows,  and  he's 
only  an  ignorant  whiskey  dealer."  As  he 
spoke,  the  young  man  took  out  pencil  and 
paper.  "Now  then,"  he  said  in  a  brisk, 
businesslike  manner,  "I'll  give  you  fellows 
[224] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


a  fair  shake.  Write  down  verbatim  any 
statement  you " 

"It's  no  use,"  said  Shayne  to  Nordheimer, 
in  a  confidential  manner.  "Can't  shield 
the  old   gentleman   any   longer." 

Woods  smiled.  "  So  that's  it,  eh .?  All 
right.  Go  on.  That  makes  it  all  the  more 
interesting."  He  pretended  to  take  notes. 
Nordheimer  looked  at  Shayne. 

"General  Cunningham  wrote  that  bill," 
said   Shayne. 

Woods,  still  calmly  taking  notes,  remarked 
quietly,  "  Um  hum.  And  you  kindly  attended 
to  the  printing  for  him." 

"He  O.K.'d  it  as  it  stands  to-day,"  re- 
turned Shayne,  with  still  more  force.  And 
Nordheimer  put  in  excitedly:  "We've  got 
his  own  signature  to  the  proof-sheets." 

"A  clever  precaution,"  said  the  reporter. 

"See  here,  young  man,"  returned  Shayne, 
who  had  done  much  quick  thinking,  and 
now  spoke  in  the  superior  manner  of  a  lawyer : 
[  225  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"We    can    get    affidavits    from    the    printer 
showing " 

"All  right.  All  right,"  interrupted  Woods, 
wearily,  waving  his  lead  pencil.  "I  know. 
I've  seen  the  printers,  of  course.  Quigley 
set  up  the  job  —  had  a  talk  with  him  this 
afternoon.  But,"  Woods  went  on,  mocking 
Shayne's  legal  manner,  "you  cannot  get 
affidavits  to  show  that  General  Cunningham 
wrote  that  bill  with  the  comma  omitted  from 
the  third  sentence  of  the  second  paragraph 
of  Section  VII!" 

"And  we  don't  have  to  !"  returned  Shayne, 
triumphantly.  "Let  him  prove  he  didn't!" 
And  with  that  the  lawyer  calmly  turned 
away,  Nordheimer  following,  somewhat 
dazed  by  the  sudden  reversal  of  the  situation. 

Woods  saw  the  significance  of  the  remark 
at  once,  and  for  an  instant  was  too  staggered 
to  pursue.  He  stood  staring  at  their  retreat- 
ing backs,  cursing  himself  for  showing  how 
weak  in  trumps  his  hand  was. 
[226] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


He  let  the  two  commissioners  go  on. 
The  only  thing  to  do  now  was  to  get  the 
original  draft.  Unless  that  had  been  pre- 
served, no  power  on  earth  could  clear  the 
name  of  General  Cunningham. 

Even  if  Woods  refused  to  write  a  word  of 
the  evidence  he  had  secured,  matters  had 
proceeded  too  far  by  this  time  to  be  stopped. 
His  talk  with  Judge  Lansing,  his  interview 
with  the  mayor  about  the  various  hearings 
in  that  official's  office,  his  examination  into 
various  records,  his  telegraphed  and  tele- 
phoned inquiries  at  Albany  —  it  would  all 
seem,  after  the  facts  came  out,  as  if  he  had 
suppressed  the  evidence  out  of  consideration 
for  the  general,  which  would  only  incriminate 
the  latter  more  deeply.  All  depended  on 
the  original  draft,  and  that  he  must  now 
get  at  any  cost. 


[227] 


As  he  paced  up  and  down  before  the 
Townsend  box,  wasting  a  few  precious  seconds 
in  indecision  as  to  the  best  means  of  going 
about  the  deHcate  undertaking,  it  happened 
that  Shayne  was  applying  his  sharp  wits  to 
the  accompUshment  of  the  same  end.  "  We've 
got  to  get  that  original  draft!"  he  whispered 
to  Nordheimer,  as  they  started  down  the 
stairs.     "If  we  don't,  where  are  we?" 

They  had  tried  to  "borrow"  it  a  dozen 
times  from  the  old  gentleman,  but  had  suc- 
ceeded only  in  discovering  that  he  kept  it 
locked  in  his  private  safe. 

There  was  no  time  for  formalities  now. 
"Nordheimer,"  whispered  Shayne,  "go  put 
Slim  Burke  on  the  job,  quick !  If  he  don't 
get  it  in  my  hands  to-night,  tell  him  I'll 
show  him  up.     Tell  him  it'll  mean  twenty 

[228] 


AT   THE    OPERA 


years'  hard  labor  for  him  this  time.  Wait  a 
minute,  Nordheimer.  Do  you  realize  that 
if  we  don't  get  it  —  it  means  twenty  years 
for  us?" 

Nordheimer,  fleeing  in  terror,  passed  on 
the  staircase  the  man  Lascelles,  followed  at 
a  little  distance  by  Miss  Daros;  Lascelles 
made  for  Shayne.  "Don't  you  think  you'd 
Hke  to  have  a  little  talk  with  me,  after  all  ?" 
he  asked,  with  his  insinuating  smile.  Miss 
Daros,  who  had  been  hovering  near  the 
Townsend  box  all  evening,  had  witnessed 
the  encounter  with  Woods,  and  had  hurried 
after  Lascelles. 

"That  man  on  your  paper  ?"  Shayne  asked, 
seeing  a  sudden  ray  of  hope. 

Lascelles  nodded,  impudently  calm, 

"But  I  know  Woods,"  added  Shayne, 
shaking  his  head  and  feehng  inward  alarm 
once  more. 

Lascelles  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Every 
man  has  his  price,"  he  said  in  his  oily  way. 
[229] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"Woods    is    a    high-priced    man,    I     admit, 
but " 

"You're  a  Har,"  interrupted  Shayne.  "IVe 
tried  to  fix  him  before." 

As  they  talked,  they  had  drawn  near  the 
subject  of  their  conversation,  who  was  shak- 
ing his  head  abstractedly  as  he  tore  up  a 
visiting-card  on  which  he  had  scribbled  a 
few  words.     He  knew  the  futility  of  that. 

"Oh,  Billy,''  inquired  Lascelles,  calmly, 
"are  you  working  for  us  or  not  .f"' 

Woods    waved     him     aside    impatiently. 
"Yes,  yes.     Don't  bother  me  now." 

Lascelles  whispered  to  Shayne:  "Wants 
me  to  take  care  of  this  end  of  the  job,  you 
see." 

For  answer,  Shayne  took  Lascelles  by 
the  arm.  "Let's  go  across  to  the  Kid's," 
he  said. 

And  now  Woods,  with  a  sudden  resolution, 
biting    his  lip,  quietly  opened    the  door  of 
the  box  and  called  in  a  low,  earnest  tone: 
[230] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


"  General  Cunningham,  quick  !  I  can  block 
the  bill  for  you." 

At  first  there  was  no  reply  except  the  incon- 
gruous one  of  the  music  and  the  low  babble 
of  voices  pouring  out  through  the  open  door. 
He  had  not  been  heard  except  by  the  footman, 
who  turned,  scandalized,  as  if  to  put  the 
intruder  out.  Woods  called  again.  This 
time  it  was  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all 
in  the  box.  Some  of  those  in  neighboring 
boxes  turned  and  looked.  Gilbert  flew  out, 
blazing  with  indignation.  "Say,  Gilbert, 
quick !  tell  him  —  Oh,  I'm  awfully  sorry, 
of  course.  But,  quick  !  I've  solved  the  mys- 
tery!" 

"  Shs !  Don't  you  realize  where  you 
are.?" 

"  Can't  you  realize  why  ?  Quick  !  I  tell 
you,  call  him  out." 

"General  Cunningham  is  already  a  very 
sick  man " 


"  But  I  can  cure  him  !  " 
[231  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


" all   because   you   damned    reporters 

"  Bah  !  "  interrupted  Billy,  furious.  But 
he  controlled  himself.  "  See  here,  Gilbert,'' 
he  said  firmly,  "  I  can't  waste  much  more 
time  with  you,  but  if  you  want  to  save  the 
old  boy's  reputation " 

"  Shs  !  Will  you  leave  quietly,"  whispered 
Gilbert,  taking  hold  of  the  door,  "  or  must  I 
put  you  out  ^  " 

"  Either  you  bring  him  to  me,"  cried 
Woods,  taking  a  step  forward,  "or  I  go 
in!" 

Gilbert,  with  sudden  rage,  shoved  his 
cousin  back  and  slammed  the  door.  Woods 
had  been  taken  unawares.  He  now  threw 
himself  against  the  door  with  all  his  force. 
Gilbert  hadn't  time  to  turn  the  latch.  The 
door  burst  open.  Gilbert,  assisted  by  the 
footman,  pushed  it  back  again.  Woods 
blocked  it  with  his  foot.  Now  he  was  des- 
perate. He  shouted  through  the  crack  in  a 
[232] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


loud  tone:  "General,  quick!  I've  dis- 
covered the  whole  plot ! " 

Those  in  the  near-by  boxes  thought  it  must 
be  a  crank  or  an  intoxicated  person,  but  they 
saw  the  general  disappear  quickly  into  the 
anteroom.  "What's  this?  What's  this?" 
he  whispered  excitedly. 

"A  trick  to  get  you  out,"  returned  Gilbert, 
still  struggHng  at  the  door.     "Go  back,  sir." 

"The  original  draft !  Where  is  it  ?"  came 
in  Woods's  voice  through  the  crack. 

"Come  on,  father,"  said  another  voice 
within.  Frances  had  followed.  "Will  you 
let  us  pass  ?"     Gilbert  gave  way  reluctantly. 

All  three  now  joined  the  reporter  in  the 
promenade,  Gilbert  closing  the  door  to  pre- 
vent further  disgraceful  disturbance.  It 
would  be  hard  enough  to  explain  what  had 
already  happened. 


[233] 


VI 

"Young  man,  what's  all  this  ado  about  a 
plot?"  asked  the  general,  half  suspicious. 

"Where  is  the  draft,  sir?" 

They  were  all  excited,  Gilbert  the  most  so. 
"He  says  he  can  block  the  bill  already. 
Why  don't  you  go  and  do  it,  then  ?  Frances, 
this  is  no  place  for  you."  But  the  girl  de- 
clined to  go  in. 

"Because,"  answered  Woods,  "until  I 
clinch  my  evidence  with  that  draft " 

"Told  you  so  —  a  trick  !  Come  on  back, 
sir." 

"What  is  the  plot,  Billy?"  This  from 
Frances. 

"  Make  haste,  sir ! "  from  the  general. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  that  —  at  least  not  now. 
But  if  you'll  only  let   me   have  that  draft 

until  to-morrow " 

[234] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


"Can't  tell  me!" 

"Can't  tell  the  author  of  the  bill,  eh?" 
Gilbert  joined  in. 

"Why  not,  Billy?"  added  the  one  sym- 
pathetic voice. 

Woods  was  panting.     "But  I  only  got  the 

tip    by    promising "      He  stopped.      It 

would  never  do  to  mention  Lascelles's  name 
to  the  general. 

"Yes?" 

" by  a   promise  that  I  wouldn't   tell 

you,  sir." 

"Rot!"  sneered  Gilbert. 

"Why  not,   Billy?     Explain!" 

"  Because,  don't  you  see,  in  his  excitement 
he  might  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag  —  tele- 
phone the  whole  story  up  to  the  governor, 
and  then " 

"Well!  wouldn't  that  kill  the  bill?"  de- 
manded Gilbert,  ironically. 

"But  can't  you  see,  it  would  also  kill  the 
story!" 


[235] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"Oh,  we  see  that,"  said  Gilbert.  "A 
'big  story'!  The  news  of  course  is  more 
important." 

"News,  as  it  happens,"  returned  the 
reporter,  "is  the  commodity  in  which  news- 
papers deal.  Astonishing  fact,  isn't  it?" 
Then,  turning  from  Gilbert  to  the  general, 
with  simple  earnestness:  "I  offered  you  my 
services  to-day.  You  declined  the  offer. 
I'm  working  for  a  newspaper  now.  It's  the 
only  way  I  could  do  it.  If  you'll  give  me 
that  draft  I'll  kill  your  bill.  You've  got  to 
trust  somebody.     Why  not  trust  me.?" 

Again  the  girl  put  in  to  her  father,  who  was 
hesitating:  "Yes,  father.  Do  take  my  ad- 
vice." 

"He  did  once  to-day,"  muttered  Gilbert. 

"I  can't  wait  here  all  night,  sir,"  cried 
Woods,  in  desperation.  "For  the  last  time, 
do  you  want  me  to  show  up  those  rascals, 
smash  that  bill,  save  your  name  .?     Or " 

"The  last  chance!"  whispered  Frances. 

[  236  ] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


Gilbert  took  the  general's  arm.  "Why  is 
he  so  anxious  to  save  your  name  ?  —  panting 
with  excitement  to  save  your  name  ?" 

The  tortured  reporter  could  stand  it  no 
longer.  He  was  in  a  state  where  the  ordinary 
reserves  are  transcended.  "  Because,  if  you 
must  know  my  reasons,"  he  burst  out  im- 
petuously to  the  general,  "if  you  can't  believe 
in  me  otherwise"  —  he  turned  his  excited 
eyes  toward  Frances;  but  the  girl,  who  was 
looking  at  him  imploringly,  put  her  finger  to 
her  lips  and  shook  her  head.  Woods  bowed 
to  her  behest.  "Because,  as  I  was  saying, 
this  is  the  legitimate  pursuit  of  my  profession." 

The  general  turned  abruptly  toward  the 
box  door.  "There  is  nothing  legitimate 
about  the  profession  you  pursue,"  he  said 
with  contempt,  and  then  started  at  beholding 
other  members  of  the  same  illegitimate  pro- 
fession drawing  near,  a  half-dozen  of  them. 

"  Billy's  got  him,"  one  of  these  was  saying. 
Perhaps  the  news  of  the  flutter  in  the  Town- 

[  ^n  ] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


send  box  had  spread,  or  certain  observant 
eyes  had  detected  the  absence  of  the  general's 
silvery  head.  At  any  rate,  here  they  w^ere, 
swooping  dov^n  upon  him  like  vultures. 

"Come  in,  sir,  quick!"  vs^hispered  Gilbert. 

But  the  general  had  conceived  another  plan. 
"We'd  better  telephone  to  the  governor  about 
this,"  he  said. 

Henderson,  in  the  vanguard  of  the  reporters, 
w^as  taking  out  his  much-folded,  smudgy 
proof.  "All  I  v^ant  to  knov^,  sir,"  he  began 
considerately,  and  they  surrounded  the  vener- 
able gentleman,  despite  his  silent  gesticu- 
lations. 

Gilbert  had  started  with  him,  but  stopped 
at  seeing  his  cousin  draw  near  Frances. 
"Go  with  father,"  she  whispered  to  Gilbert; 
"I  can't." 

"  Go  back  to  the  box.  You  must ! "  he 
returned,  as  though  he  meant  to  make  a 
bargain  of  it.  She  opened  the  door,  but  as 
she  stepped  in  she  heard   Billy,  passing  by 

[238] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


apparently  intent  on  something  in  the  other 
direction:  "As  you  value  your  father's  life, 
let  me  see  you." 

"Can't  you  take  *no'  for  an  answer?" 
Gilbert  was  demanding  of  the  rapacious 
reporters. 

"But,  general,"  Henderson  was  persist- 
ing, "if  you  don't  deny " 

"Nothing  to  say.  Nothing  to  say,"  re- 
peated the  general,  until  Gilbert  got  him 
safely  into  an  automobile  and  whisked  him 
off  to  the  Bar  Association  near  by,  where 
the  old  man  could  telephone  to  his  heart's 
content,  out  of  reach  of  the  reporters. 


[239] 


VII 

Frances  had  gone  only  as  far  as  the 
anteroom  of  the  box  and  as  soon  as  she 
knew  Gilbert  was  out  of  sight,  reappeared 
alone  in  the  promenade,  as  Billy  had 
believed  she  would.  He  was  more  in- 
tense than  ever  now,  because  the  time  was 
shorter  and  his  case  more  desperate.  There 
were  no  preliminaries.  He  almost  sprang  at 
her.     "The  draft  —  where  is  it?" 

"In  his  pocket." 

"Good  work." 

"A  mysterious  note  this  afternoon " 

"I  know " 

" — warning  him " 

"Yes,  yes  —  I  wrote  it.     Now,  then " 


"You!"     He  was  too  intent  to  notice  the 
recoil. 

"To    make    him    bring    the    draft    here," 

Woods  threw  in.     "Now  listen " 

[240] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


"An   anonymous  note?" 

Billy  gave  her  a  different  look  now. 

"Great  heavens!  Do  you  think  this  is 
much  fun  for  me  ?  prying  in  where  Fm  not 
wanted,  writing  anonymous  notes,  getting 
insulted,  treated  like  a  dog !  Why  do  you 
think  Tm  doing  it,  anyway!" 

She  had  no  reply  to  make  to  that.  He 
had  no  time  to  wait  for  an  answer.  "And 
now  —  worst  of  all  —  Tve  got  to  drag  you 
in."  He  paused  and  then  said,  more  slowly, 
"Will  you  get  me  that  draft?" 

She  looked  up  at  him.  "You  wouldn't 
ask  me  to  take  it,  Billy?" 

"I  don't  know  how  you'll  get  it.  But  get 
it !  We've  simply  got  to  save  your  father 
in  spite  of  himself.  Will  you  get  me  that 
draft?" 

She  hesitated.  He  looked  at  his  watch 
again,  then  at  her  quivering  face.  "  Don't !  " 
he  cried,  with  a  throb  in  his  voice.  "Don't 
look    at    me    Hke    that  1     You'll    make    me 

[241] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


give  up,  on  the  brink  of  success !  What's 
that  piece  of  paper  to  me  ?  What  do  I  care 
about  the  pubhc's  opinion  of  your  father!" 
Billy  snapped  his  fingers.  "  But  your  opinion 
of  me  ! "  There  was  something  like  reverence 
in  his  tone,  w^hich  made  her  heart  sv^ell. 
^' Don't  you  know^  why  I'm  doing  all  this?" 
he  went  on,  the  love  note  in  his  voice  ringing 
and  rushing  out  to  her.  "Can't  you  see 
why  I'm  working  as  I  never  worked  before  .? 
Oh,  Frances,  Frances,  you  must  at  least 
believe  in  me !  That  much  I  demand. 
You  must !  You  must !  Why,  for  the 
woman  I  love  I  would  lie,  I  would  steal,  I 
would  kill,  and  go  through  hell,  with  only  the 
reward  of  knowing  it  was  'for  her  dear  sake.' 
That,  nobody  could  take  from  me.  That  — 
it  would  be  mine  for  ever  and  ever !  Will 
you  believe  in  me .?  Will  you  trust  me .? 
Will  you  do  as  I  ask  .?" 

She    was    suffusingly    conscious    of   being 
swept   from   her   moorings,    carried    up    and 
[242  ] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


away  on  the  wave  of  his  wonderful  words. 
Impulsively  she  put  both  her  girhsh  hands 
in  his.  "Yes,"  she  whispered  —  "even  if  I 
have  to  take  it." 

"Then  you  do  understand  the  importance 
of " 

"No.     But  I  love  you,  Billy." 

The  box  door  opened.  Mrs.  Metcalfe 
had  become  anxious  at  the  long  absence  of 
those  she  was  already  so  concerned  about. 

"I  wondered  what  had  become  of  you," 
she  began,  and  then  caught  sight  of  the  re- 
porter. Her  sudden  presence,  like  her  normal 
conventional  voice,  was  as  jarring  as  a  colli- 
sion in  mid-ocean.  The  man  was  the  first  to 
recover  his  balance. 

"It  all  rests  with  you  now,"  he  muttered, 
and  walked  away. 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  turned  to  her  niece.  "Re- 
porting at  the  opera!"  was  all  she  said,  but 
not  all  she  thought. 

Frances  sought  to  divert  her  by  a  flood  of 
[243] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


sentences,  telling  what  had  become  of  her 
father  and  Gilbert.  But,  as  she  began, 
Gilbert  returned,  alone.  "Why,  where's 
father  .?"  she  asked. 

Gilbert  had  passed  Woods  on  the  stairway, 
and  guessed  where  he  came  from.  "Some- 
thing to  tell  you  about  that  fellow,"  he  said, 
with  a  gesture  toward  the  stairway. 

"Where's  father?'' 

"Still  telephoning  —  my  car's  waiting  for 
him." 

"Why  didn't  you  stay  with  him.?" 

"You  need  protection  a  great  deal 
more." 

Miss  Daros,  having  been  sent  again  by 
Lascelles  to  see  how  the  land  lay,  had 
stopped  by  a  pillar  at  a  safe  distance  on 
seeing  Frances  and  W^oods  together.  Fear- 
ing discovery,  she  had  not  dared  approach 
near  enough  to  hear  their  words,  but  she 
had  witnessed  the  climax  of  their  interview. 
She  now  drew  near,  following  Gilbert,  as 
[244] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


if  her  destination  lay  farther  around  the 
horseshoe. 

She  was  observed  of  Mrs.  Metcalfe,  and 
gave  that  lady  an  inspiration.  Some  of 
Frances's  East  Side  excursions  had  included 
her  aunt,  and  so  Miss  Daros  was  not  un- 
known to  her.  "May  I  speak  to  you  a  mo- 
ment?" asked  Mrs.  Metcalfe,  leading  her 
apart.  The  time  had  come  for  decisive 
action. 

Gilbert,  meanwhile,  was  talking  earnestly 
with  Frances.  "You  think  he's  working  for 
your  father.  I  wouldn't  poison  your  mind 
against  an  innocent  person  for  the  world,  no 
matter  who  or  what  he  might  be."  Gilbert 
was  overwrought.  "But  I  consider  it  no 
more  than  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  this  man, 
who  you  have  informed  me  is  so  nobly  de- 
sirous of  helping  your  father  out  of  all  this, 
without  any  hope  of  reward  of  any  kind  — 
I  think  I  quote  your  words  correctly  —  this 
man  is  in  the  employ  of  one  Lascelles  !" 

[MS] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"The  man  who  killed  father's  political 
career  ?     Nonsense !     I    don't   believe  you." 

"Ask  any  of  the  reporters.  You  seem 
given  to  believing  reporters.  It's  all  they're 
talking  about  this  evening." 

Frances  smiled,  confidently,  which  im- 
pelled him  to  say  more  than  he  had  perhaps 
intended.  "He  has  been  off  on  a  drunk  for 
two  weeks,  they  say ;  ever  since  that  night  at 
Fernleigh." 

The  girl  spurned  the  thought  of  vouch- 
safing any  reply  further  than  the  same  confi- 
dent smile,  now  becoming  scornful. 

"He's  been  drinking  this  evening,  too. 
Your  father  and  I  wondered  what  was  the 
matter  with  him.     That  explains  it." 

This  produced  a  shrug  of  girlish  shoulders. 
The  disgust  was  not  for  the  subject  of  the 
tale,  but  the  bearer  of  it.  In  a  silence  which 
proclaimed  to  his  delicate  sensibilities  how 
she  regarded  him,  —  more  forcibly  than  any 
words  she  might  have  employed,  —  the  girl 

[246] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


moved  over  toward  the  other  pair,  as  if 
unable  to  endure  his  proximity  longer. 

"Frank  !"  he  cried,  running  after  her,  "you 
don't  understand.  It  v^as  only  because  I 
considered  it  my  duty  to  show  you  that 
fellow's  real  character!" 

"You  have  shown  me  yours!"  She  said 
it  with  the  mature  dignity  that  had  astounded 
and  fascinated  him  that  night  at  Fernleigh. 

Mrs.  Metcalfe  was  handing  back  to  the 
young  woman  reporter  a  pencil  and  a  slip  of 
paper.  "There!"  Frances  heard  her  say; 
"put  it  that  way." 

"When  shall  I  say  the  wedding  takes 
place.?"  asked  Miss  Daros. 

"There  is  to  be  no  wedding!"  Frances 
snatched  the  paper  out  of  Miss  Daros's  hand. 
"The  report  is  unfounded."  She  tore  it  to 
shreds. 

The  girl  shot  a  look  of  indignation  at 
Gilbert,  who  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if 
saying,    "It   was    not   my   doing."     But   he 

[247] 


THE    DAY-DREAMER 


refrained  from  saying  so,  out  of  consideration 
for  Mrs.  Metcalfe,  now  quite  speechless  in 
her  consternation.  Withal,  Gilbert  could 
not  help  feeling  sorry  for  the  girl's  pride 
when  in  days  to  come  she  might  have  occa- 
sion to  seek  his  forgiveness  for  this.  He 
would  grant  it. 

There  was  a  momentary  silence,  all  four 
busy  with  their  different  emotions.  Smolder- 
ing hate  and  jealousy  had  blazed  up  in  the 
dark  face  of  the  Russian  Jewess,  unseen  by 
the  others.  Frances  had  turned  her  back 
upon  them  to  hide  her  struggle  to  hold  back 
the  tears.  Mrs.  Metcalfe,  the  first  to  recover 
poise,  laid  hold  of  Gilbert.  He  seemed  in- 
clined to  return  to  the  box.  His  absence 
could  not  be  indefinitely  accounted  for  on 
the  score  of  the  general's  condition.  Catas- 
trophe was  impending. 

"Mere  girlish  caprice,"  the  old  cam- 
paigner whispered  cajolingly.  "  She  will  come 
to  her  senses  once  you  get  her  safely  away. 

[  248  ] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


These  strange  fascinations !  Remember 
Helen  Truesdale  and  her  handsome  riding- 
master?"     She  continued   in  this  vein. 

Miss  Daros,  meanwhile,  stole  near  Frances, 
hesitated  a  moment,  looking  at  the  pretty, 
quaking  shoulders,  and  wondering  at  the 
strange  ways  of  strong  men  who  chose  to 
risk  all  for  the  smile  of  brainless  little  dolls, 
and  ignore  the  existence  of  those  intellectually 
capable  of  appreciating  them. 

The  rather  noble  beauty  of  the  exquisite 
child,  standing  eloquently  erect  and  making 
such  pathetically  futile  attempts  to  stay  the 
tears,  helped  to  madden  the  other  woman. 
This  slender  hothouse  product  of  civiliza- 
tion already  possessed  everything  the  other 
lacked,  —  beauty,  wealth,  home,  family,  posi- 
tion in  the  world ;  it  was  intolerable  that  she 
should  also  take,  with  the  complacent  arro- 
gance of  youthful  prettiness,  the  heart  of 
the  man  she  herself  had  waited  for  so  long. 
Class  hatred  only  fanned  the  flame  of  con- 

[249] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


suming  fury;  elemental  passion  brought  it 
to  the  white  heat  which  blinded  her  to  actions 
which  would  seem  unnatural  to  those  with 
less  passionate  natures. 

"You  will  pardon  me,  I  know,  Miss 
Cunningham,"  she  whispered,  simulating 
deprecatory  friendliness,  "but  you  have 
always  been  so  good  to  me." 

Frances  tried  to  wave  her  aside.  "Please 
—  I  can't  talk  to  you  just  now." 

Miss  Daros  persisted:  "This  newspaper 
man,  Mr.  Woods " 

Frances  shook  her  head  and  moved  away. 
Miss  Daros  pursued.  "I  owe  it  to  you  to 
tell  you  —     Oh,  it  is  so  hard  to  tell." 

"I  do  not  care  to  hear.  Miss  Daros." 

"You  must  not  believe  what  he  says  to 
you " 

"Miss  Daros!     Stop!" 

"He  says  the  same  things  to  me!" 

"To  you!  It's  a  lie!  You  know  it!" 
Frances  had  always  admired  Miss  Daros. 
[250] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


She  had  ideas.  The  scorn  was  for  the  impu- 
tation of  Billy's  duphcity.  Miss  Daros  took 
it  as  scorn  for  one  in  a  humbler  position,  and 
she  felt  the  impotent  rage  of  a  plain  woman 
in  the  presence  of  beauty  preferred. 

The  dignity  of  the  younger  girl  mocked  her 
lack  of  it.  The  implicit  trust  made  her 
desperate  and  degraded. 

"Why  did  he  take  me  out  of  the  sweat- 
shop ?"  she  sneered,  pursuing  the  girl,  who 
ran  toward  the  others,  calling  for  protection. 
"Why  did  he  have  me  advanced  in  the 
office?"  she  kept  on.  "You  thought  it  was 
because  you  asked  him  to  do  so!" 

"Gilbert,  can't  you  send  her  away!" 

Townsend,  nonplussed,  was  trying  to. 

"You're  too  easy!"  The  woman  laughed 
back  at  Frances.  "It  was  for  your  sake  he 
gave  me  this,  I  suppose,  and  this!"  She 
indicated  a  ring  and  pin  at  her  throat.  And 
before  Gilbert  could  get  her  out  of  hearing, 
she   added   repulsively,   almost  shouting  the 

[251] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


words  back  at  Frances:  "I  don't  suppose 
you  believe  he's  drinking  this  evening,  either. 
You're  too  easy  !  " 

The  general  returning,  well-nigh  in  a 
state  of  collapse,  absorbed  the  attention  of  all 
three. 

"The  governor  cut  off  the  connection," 
was  all  he  would  vouchsafe  them.  Gilbert 
had  run  to  his  support.  The  ladies  were 
beseeching  him  to  think  no  more  about  the 
matter  at  present,  which  was  easy  to  say. 
They  calmed  him  as  best  they  could,  and 
now,  at  last,  they  returned  to  the  box. 

"Father,  you  still  have  the  draft  safe.?" 
the  girl  asked,  as  they  passed  in. 

The  general,  nodding  abstractedly  as  he 
took  off  his  overcoat,  pointed  to  the  precious 
document  protruding  from  the  inside  pocket 
of  the  garment. 

"May  I  see  it?"  she  asked,  holding  out 
her  hand. 

The  general  summoned  a  paternal  smile. 
[252] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


"Why  trouble  your  little  head  over  it?"  he 
said  in  refusal.  Then  the  door  closed  and 
they  joined  the  others  with  such  excuses  as 
seemed  fit.  Frances  remained  in  the  back 
part  of  the  box,  to  hide  the  signs  of  her  recent 
agitation,  so  Gilbert  supposed,  who  was  doing 
his  best  among  the  others  to  smooth  over  the 
unusual  incident  by  smiles  and  whispered 
comments  on  the  music. 


[253] 


VIII 

Woods,  by  the  street  entrance,  had  wit- 
nessed the  general's  return,  keeping  care- 
fully out  of  sight,  and  restraining,  with  greater 
difficulty,  his  nervous  impatience.  Inaction 
was  the  only  thing  that  he  could  not  stand 
at  such  times.     It  almost  unnerved  him. 

He  now  drew  near  the  box  door,  glanc- 
ing once  more  at  his  watch,  and  hoping 
against  hope  that  in  some  way  the  one 
lacking,  all-important  link  would  yet  be 
placed  in  his  hands.  The  whole  weight  of 
his  carefully  dug-up  mass  of  evidence 
would  fall  to  the  ground  without  it.  For 
lacking  proof  no  newspaper  would  dare 
risk  a  libel  suit  of  such  dimensions.  But, 
if  he  obtained  the  draft  now,  there  would 
be   time,  by  writing  at   the  furious  speed  of 

[254] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


which  he  was  capable,  to  rush  the  completed 
story  through  before  the  paper  went  to 
press. 

Would  she  find  it  possible  ?  Would  she 
dare  ?  Was  she  ever  coming  out  ?  Valuable 
seconds  were  passing,  while  he  waited,  tor- 
tured by  suspense.  He  heard  a  voice  speak- 
ing his  name.  He  turned,  saw  Miss  Daros, 
and  became  vaguely  conscious  that  she  had 
been  watching  him  for  some  time. 

"Have  you  seen  Miss  Cunningham?" 
he   demanded,   without   salutation. 

"What  do  you  want  with  her  .?" 

"Has  she  come  out?"  Receiving  no 
reply,  Woods,  in  his  extreme  nervous  ten- 
sion, turned  away. 

"You  forget  my  existence,"  he  now 
heard  the  young  woman  murmuring. 
"You  always  did." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  jerk- 
ing about  with  nervous  haste,  arousing 
himself   to    show    regret,    to    bow    politely. 

[255] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"I  forgot  I  had  been  out  of  town.  How 
have  you  been  ?  Haven't  shown  me  any 
of  your  verses  lately.  Why  is  that.?" 
Again  he  glanced  at  the  box  door.  His 
watch  was  ticking  off  the  seconds. 

"For  the  same  reason  as  when  you  asked 
me  to-day  at  the  office,"  Miss  Daros  re- 
turned,   a   little  wistfully. 

"I  see,  I  see,"  he  replied,  not  realizing 
what  she  said.  "You  say  you  haven't 
noticed  Miss  Cunningham  come  out .? 
You  don't  think  Miss  Cunningham  has 
come  out.?"  He  glanced  at  her  and  was 
arrested  by  a  look  on  her  face.  "I  beg 
your  pardon.  What  did  you  say.?" 
Again,  not  awaiting  her  reply,  he  turned 
away,  intent  on  that  box  door. 

Miss  Daros  followed.  "Miss  Cunning- 
ham's engagement  to  Mr.  Townsend  has 
just     been      announced,"     she     whispered. 

To  her  amazement  Woods  manifested 
no    surprise.     "I     see,"     he    said.     "Good 

[256] 


AT   THE    OPERA 


story  for  you,  isn't  it  ?  Better  catch  the 
earlier  edition  with  that." 

It  was  clear  that  he  wanted  to  be  rid  of 
her.  Miss  Daros  drew  near,  her  eyes  nar- 
rowing vindictively.  "She  is  only  work- 
ing you,  Billy  Woods!"  she  whispered 
warningly.  "That  silly  little  girl,  that  rich 
man's  daughter"  —  even  employing  the 
familiar  cant  phrases  of  her  cult,  in  her 
overwrought  state  — "  she  doesn't  care  a 
snap  of  her  fingers  for  you!" 

But  Woods  had  turned  expectantly  to- 
ward the  box  again.  "You  won't  forget 
to  let  me  see  your  verses,"  he  said. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  woman.  She 
turned  to  go.  This,  too,  was  unnoticed 
by  him.  But  as  she  left  she  looked  back, 
as  other  women  have  done  since  the  days 
of  Lot's  wife.  There  was  a  fierce  struggle 
between  love  and  hate.  She  came  back 
to  him,  love  triumphant. 

"I    don't    care    what    they    think,"    she 

[257] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


said  to  herself  desperately,  and  then  to 
him,  with  sudden  tenderness :  "  I  don't 
want  them  to  hurt  you,  Billy !  I  can't 
stand  it !  I  won't  let  them !  Come ! 
This  is  your  last  chance!     Quick!" 

Woods  became  aware  that  she  had  ceased 
speaking,  and  seeing  the  hand  she  held  out 
to  him,  took  it.  "Oh!  —  good  night,"  he 
said  pleasantly. 

"Good-by!"  the  woman  burst  out  with 
sudden  passion.  "You've  forgotten  me 
once  too  often.  After  to-night  you'll  re- 
member me  as  long  as  you  live."  She 
did  not  let  go  of  his  hand,  for,  behind  him, 
as  she  spoke,  she  had  seen,  as  he  did  not, 
the  young  girl  she  hated,  stealing  softly 
out  from  the  box,  with  a  paper  in  her  hand, 
noiselessly  closing  the  door.  Woods,  see- 
ing none  of  this,  only  felt  his  hand  suddenly 
gripped  by  both  of  hers.  "Why,  for  heav- 
en's sake!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Let    me    go,    I    tell    you!"    cried    Miss 

[258] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


Daros,  aloud,  pretending  to  struggle  to  be 
free.  "  I  don't  want  your  love !  I  hate 
you!  I  hate  you!"  With  a  final  jerk 
she  threw  his  hand  from  hers,  and  ran 
away  moaning,  "Gone,  your  chance  is  gone 
forever ! " 

Woods  watched  her  until  she  disap- 
peared. Then,  turning,  he  confronted 
Frances,  who  stood  motionless  before  him. 

Her  countenance  was  expressionless,  but 
he  took  no  note  of  that.  He  saw  the  pre- 
cious draft  at  last,  and  supposing,  if  he  stopped 
to  think  about  it  at  all,  that  she  had  only 
just  appeared,  everything  else  was  hurled 
out  of  his  mind,  as  he  came  toward  her 
with  tremendous  eagerness.  "Just  in 
time!"  he  exclaimed  joyously,  "just  in 
time!"  and  then  was  stopped  by  a  strange, 
questioning  look  on  the  girl's  face  as 
she  stepped  back  from  him. 

"Oh,  that?"  he  asked,  with  a  jerk  of  his 
head    in    the    direction    Miss    Daros    had 

[  259  ] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


taken.  "  Ever  see  such  a  thing  ?  Must 
be  crazy ! " 

"I  believe  in  you,  Billy,"  pronounced 
the  girl,  tremulously.  "Just  tell  me  the 
truth." 

"Give  me —  But  there's  nothing  to  tell. 
We  go  to  press  at " 

"The   truth!" 

"Why,  I  don't  know  what  she  meant  — 
truly  I  don't."  He  was  nearer  now,  reach- 
ing for  the  draft.  "Come,  there's  no  time 
to-night " 

Their  faces  were  close  together. 

"  Billy ! "  she  cried,  putting  the  draft  be- 
hind her  back,  as  she  recoiled  from  him. 
"You've   been   drinking!" 

"Of  course  I  have,"  he  answered,  exas- 
perated. "Can't  work  all  day  and  night 
on  nothing.  No  time  to  eat  since  this 
morning.  No  time  to  explain  now.  Why 
worry  about  me  ?  No  time  for  that,  either. 
Frances!"  She  had  slipped  away  from 
[260] 


AT    THE    OPERA 


him,  and  was  gasping  in  horror.  "What 
is  the  matter  ?  What  does  this  mean  ? 
Frances  !     If  you  love  me " 

"I  hate  you!" 

He  wilted  for  an  instant.  "Then  it  is 
so,  about  Gilbert .?  But  Fll  save  you  all 
the  same!''  He  was  up  again.  "Quick! 
the  draft  —  they'll  all  be  out  here  in  a  mo- 
ment  " 

She  was  edging  away  toward  the  box 
door.  The  muffled  music  was  drawing  to 
the  climax  of  the  second  act. 

"You  won't  believe  in  me.?"  he  moaned. 
"You're  going  to  take  away  even  my  right 
to  work  for  you!" 

"  For  me !  You  are  working  for  the 
man  who  ruined  my  father!"  It  was 
Woods's  turn  to  recoil.  "You  don't  deny 
it  ?  You  can't !  Then  all  they  said  is 
true!" 

"No  —  no  —  no!"  he  cried,  frantically 
searching  his  pockets;  "a  note  here,  some 

[261] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


place,  explains  —  can't  find  it.  Quick ! 
Here  they  come !  Explain  to-morrow  — 
For  the  last  time!    or  Til  have  to  take  it." 

He   stepped    between    her   and   the    door. 

She  clenched  the  draft  behind  her  back. 

The  latch  clicked  —  his  arms  closed 
about  her. 

"Don't  make  me  call  for  help!"  she 
whispered,  struggling.  "Oh,  please  don't!" 
Her  breath  was  on  his  cheek.  "It'll  break 
my   heart,    Billy!" 

"You've  broken  mine  already,"  —  he 
gasped  with  horror  at  what  he  was  doing,  — 
"but  all  the  same — "her  quivering  fin- 
gers gave  way  —  "you  can't  prevent  my 
saving  you  now!"  he  cried,  and  was  off 
with  the  crumpled  draft,  startling  Mrs. 
Metcalfe  as  he  flashed  past  the  box  door, 
out  of  which  Gilbert  and  the  general  fol- 
lowed. 


[262] 


PART    IV 

PARK   ROW  AGAIN 

I 

TT  was  getting  late  and  the  reporters  were 
rounding  up  from  their  night  assign- 
ments, coming  in  with  dripping  raincoats 
or  wet  umbrellas.  Others  had  already  re- 
ported at  the  desk  and  were  now  writing 
rapidly,  with  green-shaded  electric  lamps 
flooding  each  table  with  light  and  reflect- 
ing objectionably  from  the  writers'  copy 
paper  into  the  writers'  eyes. 

There  wasn't  much  time  for  gossip  now, 
and  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  more 
tense,  just  as  the  floor  was  covered  more 
thickly  with  discarded  sheets  of  copy  paper 
and    "flimsy,"    as    they    called    the    news- 

[263] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


bureau  stories  manifoldly  typewritten  on 
tissue-paper.  Rumpled  afternoon  edi- 
tions of  other  newspapers,  published  sev- 
eral hours  since,  and  therefore  stale  and 
unprofitable,   helped  the  effect. 

The  room  was  more  crowded  now,  too, 
for  the  copy-readers  had  arrived  long  ago, 
and  each  was  slashing  away  with  a  large 
pencil  at  a  little  pile  of  manuscript  before 
him,  blowing  much  smoke  at  it  by  way  of 
expressing  his  opinion. 

Stone  and  Haskill  were  still  at  the  desk, 
which  was  exceptional  —  both  reading 
copy  industriously.  Stone,  in  the  case  of 
the  more  important  stories,  was  building 
humorous  heads.  It  seemed  to  cause  him 
considerable  melancholy,  which  he  bore 
patiently.  Copy-boxes  were  whistling  and 
shooting  up  through  the  ceiling.  A  tele- 
phone bell  was  ringing.  Electric  fans  were 
buzzing  excitedly.  Down  by  the  gate  the 
office    boys    were    playing    horse,    as    usual. 

[264] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


"Dinner  to  the  prince,"  muttered  one 
of  the  reporters,  who  had  been  writing  in 
shirt-sleeves.  He  stuck  his  manuscript  on 
the  file  in  front  of  Stone,  who  nodded  im- 
perceptibly and  tapped  his  bell. 

"Scrap  in  the  Board  of  Education," 
said  another  reporter,  doing  likewise. 

"The  Confession  of  Faith  fight,"  re- 
marked another,  wearily. 

Stone  touched  his  bell  again,  more  em- 
phatically this  time,  and  called,  "Boy, 
copy!"  But  the  boys  were  too  busy  with 
their  own  devices  to  hear. 

"Why  is  Stone  keeping  the  desk  to- 
night?" asked  the  inquiring  Covington, 
who  hadn't  had  time  to  inquire  before 
writing  his  story.  "White  hasn't  got  an- 
other baby  already?" 

"Cunningham  bill,"  replied  Jones. 
"Expects  something  big.  Too  big  for  the 
new  night  man  to  handle." 

Stone    meanwhile    had     struck    the    bell 

[265] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


four  times  in  rapid  succession  with  the 
open  palm  of  his  hand,  each  stroke  coming 
down  harder  until  the  last  ended  in  a  dull, 
ringless  thump.  Two  scared  boys  now  came 
on  the  run.  "  'F  you  boys  can't  learn 
to  answer  this  bell,"  he  screamed  at  the  two 
who  did  answer  it,  "fired  !     Here  —  run  !" 

Both  boys  grabbed  at  the  bunch  of  copy, 
Tommy  got  it,  and  ran  —  until  out  of  the 
editor's  sight;  then  turned  and  put  his 
thumb  to  his  nose  without  doubhng  up 
his  fingers.  So,  feeHng  better,  he  stuck 
the  copy  into  the  box  alongside  of  the  wall, 
which  straightway  whistled  and  shot  up 
through  the  ceiling. 

Jones,  stretching  his  arms  with  relief 
after  writing,  said,  referring  to  Stone's 
temper,  "That's  the  way  he's  been  ever 
since  this  afternoon."  Unconsciously  he 
turned  to  look  at  Woods's  former  writing- 
table,  which,  in  contrast  to  the  other  tables, 
was  quite  bare  and  clean. 
[266] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


"Doesn't  seem  natural,"  smiled  Cov- 
ington, who  had  followed  the  other's  glance. 

"Sort  of  stark  and  staring,  eh?"  put  in 
young  Linton,  who  had  also  finished  his 
work. 

Covington  arose  and,  sauntering  down 
to  the  overclean  table,  sprinkled  some 
copy  paper  over  it,  mussed  it  up  a  little,  and 
then,  picking  up  somebody's  coat,  dropped 
it  on  top.  "How's  that?"  he  said,  return- 
ing to  the  others,  who  laughed. 

"  London  correspondent ! "  muttered 
Sampson,  one  of  the  older  men,  who  was 
conscientious,  sober,  industrious,  and  nearly 
everything  else  that  is  said  by  some  to 
bring  success,  but  it  would  never  come  to 
him.  "My,  what  wouldn't  I  give  for  such 
a  chance  to  pull  out  of  this  slavery!" 

"It's  time  Woods  was  getting  out  of 
New  York,"  put  in  one  of  the  near-by  copy- 
readers,  twirling  his  eye-shade  while  waiting 
for  a  fresh  batch  of  copy  to  come  his  way. 

[267] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"Flow  do  you  mean?"  asked  Linton, 
who  was  young  and  curious. 

"  Been  here  too  much,"  repHed  his  senior, 
reHghting  his  pipe.  ''Ought  to  break 
away  and  stay  away  and  learn  something 
new.  He's  reached  the  turning-point, 
though,  of  course,  he  doesn't  know  it. 
They  never  do.  He  will  now  go  forward 
and  do  brilliant  things,  or  —  backward  and 
sink  out  of  sight,  like  old  Harvey  Newcomb 
and  Austin  Smith,  or  a  dozen  other  '  hor- 
rible   examples.'  " 

"Just  Hke  old  Billy,  though,"  smiled 
young  Linton,  who  was  still  romantic,  "to 
forget  about  London  and  his  future  and 
everything  else  on  account  of  a  pretty  face." 

"The  best  thing  that  could  happen  to 
Woods,"  replied  the  older  man,  who  took 
a  more  practical  view  of  such  matters, 
"would  be  to  get  married  and  become 
normalized.  It  might  prove  his  salvation." 
Then  the  boy  brought  more  of  the  writings 

[268] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


of  others  to  be  scanned  for  sins  of  omission 
and  commission.  These  ranged  from  the 
omission  of  commas  to  the  commission  of 
libellous  statements;  and  included  ever  so 
many  other  lacks  of  conformity  unto,  or 
transgression  of,  the  laws  of  the  office  and 
the  latest  policy  of  the  paper.  This  latter 
meant  the  opinions  or  preferences  of  the 
financial  interests  in  control. 

Meanwhile  the  person  they  were  still 
talking  so  much  about  was  flying  down- 
town from  the  opera,  so  intent  on  the  out- 
lining of  his  story  that  he  did  not  hear  the 
guard  call  out  the  stations.  It  was  an 
astounding  story,  one  calculated  to  make 
the  whole  town  put  down  its  coffee  cups 
and  pick  up  the  paper  with  both  hands. 
But  he  was  not  thinking  of  that  now,  nor 
of  the  motive  which  had  made  him  get  it 
in  the  face  of  tremendous  obstacles.  It 
was  the  master  craftsman  busy  with  his 
craft,  who  arose  automatically  as  the  train 

[269) 


V 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


drew  near  his  station,  pressed  to  the  door, 
and  was  the  first  to  get  out  upon  the  plat- 
form. He  crossed  a  sHce  of  City  Hall 
Park,  planning  his  introduction.  He  did 
not  hear  a  few  belated  newsboys  calling 
the  late  editions,  or  see  the  indigent 
and  sleepy  refuse  of  the  city  shivering 
and  dripping  on  the  benches.  He  raced 
across  the  street  to  beat  a  clanging  cable- 
car,  mechanically  dodged  a  hurrying  mail- 
wagon,  and  smiled  as  a  telling  opening 
sentence  flashed  into  his  mind. 

Then,  like  a  homing  pigeon,  he  darted 
in  at  the  old  familiar  doorway,  just  as  he 
had  always  done,  ran  up  the  stairs  two  steps 
at  a  time,  hurried  in  to  his  old  desk,  swore 
at  the  coat  lying  there,  brushed  it  off  upon 
the  floor,  sat  down  and  plunged  into  writ- 
ing like  nothing  in  the  world  but  a  born 
reporter  with  a  tremendous  beat,  who  real- 
izes that  he  has  barely  time  to  finish  his 
story  before  the  paper  goes  to  press. 
[270] 


II 

The  police  headquarters  man  had  tele- 
phoned in  a  bunch  of  precinct  returns, 
arrests,  accidents,  and  so  on.  Stone  turned 
his  glittering  eye-glasses  down  along  the 
even  rows  of  reporters'  desks  to  pick  out 
the  most  available  men  for  such  of  these 
late  stories  as  seemed  worth  covering. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Woods  came 
hurrying  into  the  room,  with  his  head 
thrown  back,  passing,  on  the  way,  Sampson, 
Linton,  and  Jones,  who  gazed  at  him  in 
surprise.  "What  the  devil!"  they  whis- 
pered,   looking     at    one     another,    puzzled. 

"Haskill,"  said  Stone,  languidly,  "what's 
Woods   doing  in  this  office.?" 

"Going  to  leave  a  note  for  some  one, 
I  suppose,"  returned  Haskill,  running  his 
pencil  through  a  half-page  of  some  poor 
[271] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


space-grabber's  copy.  "Spreadhead  for 
this?" 

"Not  worth  it,"  Stone  answered,  and 
called  upon  Sampson  to  cover  a  two-alarm 
fire  in  Hester  Street  —  a  tenement  house 
with  women  and  children  screaming  on 
the  fire-escapes.  He  handed  a  fire-badge 
to  Sampson,  who,  glancing  inquiringly  in 
Woods's  direction,  went  on  out  to  get  the 
news. 

"Shouldn't  think  Billy  was  the  sort  to 
drop  in  here  so  soon,"  Stone  added,  as  he 
bent  over  his  work  again. 

"  'Tis  sort  of  queer,"  Haskill  admitted. 
For  Woods  was  known  as  something  of  a 
stickler  for  Park  Row  etiquette.  Mean- 
while, the  interest  in  the  room  was  approach- 
ing  excitement. 

Scott  hurried  in  through  the  gate,  some- 
what late,  and  marched  briskly  up  to  the 
desk  without  seeing  Woods.  "Say!  Cun- 
ningham's going  to  get  it  all  around,"  he 
[272] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


announced  with  relish.  "Other  papers  on 
to  his  coming  to  us." 

"Who  gave  it  away.f*"  put  in  Stone. 

"Don't  know,   but " 

"What  did  you  get  out  of  the  property- 
holders  .?" 

"Well,  there's  some  sort  of  *con'  game 
on,  sure,  and  if  Cunningham's  not  the 
main  guy " 

"Up  to  him  to  prove  it.  Write  all  you've 
got.     Detailed    story. " 

Scott,  taking  off  his  coat,  hurried  down 
to  his  table  near  the  gate,  feeHng  so  impor- 
tant that  he  did  not  look  across  at  Woods, 
who  was  busily  writing. 

Stone,  however,  happened  to  glance  in 
that  direction  again.  "Still  here,  Has- 
kill." 

"Must  be  writing  letters  to  the  whole 
staff,"  remarked  Haskill,  handing  copy  to 
a  boy,  who  gazed  wonderingly  at  Woods  in 
passing. 

[273] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


But  Stone  kept  on  scowling.  "Office 
rules,   Haskill  —  better   remind   him." 

"Oh,  say,  Mr.  Stone,  think  how  he 
would  feel !  Wait  till  he's  through  writ- 
ing." 

The  telephone  bell  interrupted.  Has- 
kill picked  up  the  receiver  and  listened. 
Then  he  said  to  Stone :  "  Berwin  at  Albany 
—  says  the  governor's  going  to  bed." 

Stone  took  the  telephone  out  of  Haskill's 
hand  and  gave  him  a  less  welcome  duty: 
"Just  ask  Woods  if — there's  anything  we 
can  do  for  him." 

Haskill  approached  Billy  ver}^  slowly. 
The  idle  reporters  stopped  talking  and 
watched.  It  was  now  so  quiet  that  they 
could  hear  Stone  saying  to  Berwin  at  Al- 
bany —  though  doubtless  they  did  not : 
"Nothing  doing,  eh?  Well,  keep  your 
eyes  open.  Big  story  to-morrow  when  the 
bill   goes   through." 

Haskill,  having  stared  at  Woods  from 
[274] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


one  side,  now  went  around  and  stared  at 
him  from  the  other.  The  latter  meanwhile 
kept  on  writing,  as  unconscious  of  the 
interest  he  was  exciting  as  a  baby  at  its 
baptism.  Haskill  came  nearer,  looking  at 
his  old  friend's  intent  face,  and  cleared 
his  throat  as  if  to  speak.  Then,  quite 
from  editorial  habit,  he  glanced  over  the 
writer's  shoulder.  Those  looking  on  saw 
his  head  suddenly  duck  as  his  eye  rapidly 
flew  down  the  page  of  manuscript.  He 
fairly  ran  all  the  way  back  to  Stone,  with 
a  scared  look  on  his  face,  and  whispered 
a  few  quick,  excited  words. 

The  editor  sprang  out  of  his  seat  as  if  it 
had  been  an  electric  chair,  saying  all  in  one 
breath:  "A  ten-million-dollar  steal  if  it's 
a  cent.  Who  are  they  ?  How  did  he  get 
it?" 

"I  tell  you  I  only  saw  that  one  page," 
returned  Haskill,  excitedly,  starting  toward 
Woods  again.     Stone  grabbed  and  held  him. 

[275] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


"Wait  a  minute.  What's  he  doing 
here  ?  Why  does  he  bring  this  to  us  —  ? 
Gad !  That's  it !"  Stone  had  suddenly 
reaHzed  what  had  happened,  and  also  real- 
izing how  easily  it  might  be  undone,  he 
instinctively  started  toward  Woods,  then 
stopped  abruptly,  clapping  his  hand  to  his 
mouth.  Haskill,  following  blindly,  bumped 
into  him.  "Quick!"  whispered  Stone, 
grasping  him  fiercely.  "How'U  we  work 
it?    Quick!" 

"Work  what.?" 

"As  soon  as  he  realizes  where  he  is " 

"Oh!"  gasped  Haskill.  He,  too,  sud- 
denly got  it,  started  toward  Woods,  was 
stopped  by  Stone,  whirled  about,  and  pushed 
violently  into  a  chair.  At  that  point  Hen- 
derson, the  political  reporter,  arrived  from 
the  opera,  bursting  with  news  and  impor- 
tance. Smoking  thoughtfully,  he  walked 
straight  to  Stone  and  Haskill.  "Well, 
caught    Cunningham    up    there    all    right," 

[276] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


he  began,  taking  off  his  coat;  "tried  to 
make  him  read  that  proof.     No  go!" 

Stone's  back  was  turned,  but  Hender- 
son, familiar  with  the  editor's  custom  of 
attending  to  several  things  at  once,  did  not 
dream  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  news- 
paper Hfe  Stone  was  so  rattled  he  did  not 
hear  a  reporter  teUing  "what  he  got." 
Stone  and  Haskill  were  clinging  to  each 
other's  arms  like  a  pair  of  frightened  girls 
in  the  surf.  "How'U  we  work  it!"  they 
were  beseeching  each  other.  "Think,  man! 
You've  got  to  think!" 

"But  all  the  same,"  Henderson  went 
on  cheerfully,  as  he  laid  down  his  coat  and 
turned  to  them  again,  "I've  got  a  story 
that'll  make  'em  look  up.  Somebody's 
stolen  the  old  man's  original  draft  of  the 
bill!     Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that  .f"' 

And  still  they  paid  no  attention. 

"Couldn't  we  lock  him  in?"  Haskill  was 
whispering. 

[277] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


*'But  we  couldn't  force  him  to  write." 
Stone  was  recovering  the  use  of  his  mind. 
Heretofore    instincts    only    had    guided    him. 

Henderson  began  to  think  they  were 
taking  his  story  rather  calmly.  "Now,  young 
Townsend,"  he  continued,  —  with  an  air 
of  saying,  "Bet  I  wake  you  up  this  time!" 
—  "young  Townsend  says  that  Billy  Woods 
stole  it;    but " 

Stone    whirled    around.     "Who.?" 

Haskill   jumped    up.     "What's   that  .f*" 

"Billy  Woods,"  repeated  Henderson, 
with  smiling  satisfaction.  "And  a  couple 
of  the  papers  are  going  to  print  the  inter- 
view !  But  Miss  Cunningham,  she  swears 
that  she  lent  it  to  Billy  till  to-morrow  morn- 
ing.    Going  to  print  that,  too." 

"Lent  what.?" 

"Stole  what.?" 

Both  barrels  were  discharged  at  once  in 
Henderson's  face,  who  blinked  in  annoy- 
ance, and  replied  testily,  "The  draft,  I  said. 

[278] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


Anyhow,  it's  gone  and  the  old  man's  throw- 
ing fits  all  over  town." 

"What's  this  about  Billy?  Quick!" 
This  shot  from  Stone  —  in  a  whisper. 

"Well,  at  the  present  moment,  they're 
all  in  young  Gilbert's  auto,  scouring  the 
town  for  him.     Ha,  ha!" 

Henderson's  laugh  stopped  short  at  be- 
holding a  most  extraordinary  sight,  namely, 
a  momentary  glimpse  of  the  interior  of 
Stone's  mouth.  "Oh,  you  haven't  heard 
of  Billy's  latest  move!"  Henderson  guf- 
fawed again  at  their  slowness.  "Why, 
Billy's  gone  over  to  the  enemy  —  you 
needn't  look  at  me  that  way ;  it's  a  fact ! 
Lascelles  got  him.  I  always  said  he  would, 
you  know.  Saw  the  little  anarchist  up 
there  with  him,  by  the  way  —  why,  what's 
the  matter?" 

Haskill,  aghast,  was  whispering  to  his 
superior,  as  if  it  were  a  sentence  of  death. 
"Then,  that's  their  story!" 

[279] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


But  by  this  time  Stone  was  himself  again, 
and  he  did  not  look  at  it  in  that  way.  He 
had  taken  a  mental  survey  of  the  whole 
situation,  past,  present,  and  about  to  be  — 
as  they  now  learned,  while  he  talked  with  a 
rapidity  even  he  seldom  attained.  "That 
beat  for  those  people!  Not  on  your  hfe!" 
As  he  spoke,  he  turned  Henderson  about 
for  a  view  of  Woods,  writing  abstractedly. 
"That  story  doesn't  leave  this  office  except 
in  type.  Restrain  yourself,  Henderson. 
This  is  the  exposure  Cunningham  meant  us 
to  have  in  the  first  place.  Suppose  he'd 
want  them  to  touch  it .?  Not  with  a  ten- 
foot  pole !  Don't  interrupt  me,  Henderson. 
One  of  Lascelles's  tricks  again.  Scott! 
Scott!!  Scott!!!"  For  Scott  had  discov- 
ered Billy's  presence  and  had  been  caught 
just  in  time,  approaching  the  busy  writer 
with  an  expression  of  amazement.  Stone 
was  backing  away  still  farther  from  Billy's 
part  of  the  room,  as  if  to  lead  Scott  more 

[280] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


rapidly  from  him.  "Quick!  come  here, 
Scott.  Henderson,  will  you  keep  still.?" 
Stone  dashed  the  idea  at  the  approaching 
Scott  as  if  throwing  cold  water  into  his  face. 
"Rewrite  your  story  accordingly,"  he  added, 
giving  the  young  man  a  shove  back  toward 
his  desk  again.  "Henderson,  your  stuff's 
no  good  now,"  snatching  Henderson's  notes 
out  of  his  hands.  "Your  assignment  for  the 
rest  of  this  night  is  to  guard  Billy  Woods," 
dropping  the  notes  on  the  floor.  "Watch 
the  reporters.  Watch  the  desk-men.  Watch 
everybody.  Don't  let  any  one  but  me  speak 
to  him  —  get  within  ten  feet  of  him. 
Jones !  see  here,  Jones,  want  you  to  put 
the  fellows  on  as  they  come  in.  Under- 
stand ?  Henderson,  for  heaven's  sake,  shut 
up  and  do  as  I  tell  you  before  it's  too  late ! 
Haskill,  go,  put  all  the  desk-men  on.  Now 
get  busy.  We've  got  a  chance  here  —  a 
fighting  chance." 

"But    when    Cunningham    finds    Woods 

[281] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


isn't  there!"  put  in  the  persistent  Hender- 
son, at  last. 

"He'll  drive  like  hell  to  the  next  paper," 
interrupted   Stone. 

"But  when  he's  gone  to  all  the  others .?" 

"Yes;  he'll  try  this  office.  What  of 
it.?" 

"But  he'll  suspect " 

"Let  him  suspect.  Throw  him  down- 
stairs and  save  his  life." 

"Heavens!"  broke  in  Haskill. 

Woods  had  arisen  from  his  chair  and 
was  looking  straight  up  at  them.  They 
all  looked  back  at  him,  fascinated.  He 
suddenly  turned  and  walked  rapidly  down 
the  room  tow^ard  the  gate.  Stone,  Haskill, 
and  Henderson  bolted  down  on  tiptoe  after 
him.  But  he  wheeled  off  to  the  right, 
past  the  newspaper  files,  stepped  up  to 
the  water-cooler,  and  filled  a  glass. 

"Why,  of  course,  you  ass,"  whispered 
Henderson  to  Haskill.     "Don't  you  remem- 

[282] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


ber,  he  always  looks  around  the  room  before 
getting  a  drink  ?"  One  of  them  began  turn- 
ing over  the  files  of  an  afternoon  paper,  as 
if  in  a  great  hurry  for  something.  The  other 
was  trying  to  look  as  if  he'd  never  heard 
of  Billy  Woods. 

"What's  Stone  doing.?"  Henderson  whis- 
pered. 

The  city  editor  had  calmly  turned  back 
and  walked  over  to  Billy's  desk,  while  the 
latter  was  busy  with  the  faucet.  There  lay 
some  pages  of  finely  written  copy.  His 
experienced  eye  skimmed  over  a  paragraph. 
It  made  him  lust  for  the  rest.  It  was  risky, 
but  he  reached  over,  whisked  up  the  closely 
written  sheets,  all  except  the  last  one,  and 
hurried  up  to  the  desk  with  the  raped  manu- 
script, just  as  W^oods  put  down  the  glass, 
emitting  a  w^et-Hpped  "Ah,"  and  started 
back,  wiping  his  hands  on  his  trousers.  As 
he  passed  Haskill,  he  was  humming  a  little 
tuneless  tune.     He  sat  down,  ran  his  hand 

[283] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


through  his  hair,  then  leaning  over,  began  to 
write  rapidly  again,  putting  the  next  finished 
sheet  on  the  top  of  the  one  left,  as  unques- 
tioningly  as  a  hen  goes  to  laying  over  one 
nest-egg. 

Meanwhile,  Stone,  reading  the  copy  as 
rapidly  as  he  alone  could,  hastily  scrawled, 
"Nonp.,  Double  lead  — RUSH!''  across 
the  top  of  the  first  page  and  sent  it  up  to  the 
composing-room,  where  the  foreman,  divid- 
ing it  into  several  "takes,''  gave  them  to 
several  compositors,  who  put  them  in  type 
as  fast  as  the  keys  of  the  linotypes  could 
respond  to  their  experienced  touch.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  galley  proofs  were  down  on 
the  night  editor's  hook,  with  a  dozen  men 
bending  over  them,  murmuring  excitedly: 
"Beautiful!     Beautiful!" 

Stone  suddenly  called  out,  "Miss  Daros." 

She  had   returned   at  last.     Now,  though 

Stone  could  not  see  her  gazing  in  amazement 

at  Woods,  at  so  great  a  distance,  he  knew 

[284] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


that  she  must  have  been  warned  by  Jones  at 
the  door.  Yet  she  was  heading  directly 
toward  the  man  who  must  not  be  inter- 
rupted. 

Henderson,  pretending  to  lounge  near 
Woods,  motioned  her  politely  toward  the 
city  editor,  who  spoke  her  name  a  second 
time,  more  sharply.  Then,  feigning  sur- 
prise, she  approached  the  city-desk. 

"Get  your  opera  story?''  Stone  elected 
not  to  look  at  her  as  he  spoke. 

"Oh,  yes,  sir." 

"Will  you  write  it?" 

"Yes,  sir."  She  started  for  her  table, 
but  turned  in  a  careless  manner  over  toward 
Woods. 

"At  once!"  Stone's  sarcastic  Hps  were 
within  a  foot  of  her  ear,  for  he  had  followed 
her.     "You're  late  enough,  as  it  is." 

She  was  not  in  the  least  startled,  appar- 
ently, and  replied,  "Certainly.  Only  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  I  got  another  story  up  there 

[285] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


"     She  raised  her  voice,  hoping  to  gain 

the  absorbed  writer's  attention :  "  General 
Cunningham  has  announced  his  daughter's 
engagement  to  Gilbert  Townsend"  —  her 
voice  kept  growing  louder  —  "  and  the  best 
thing  about  it  is " 

"Good  story,"  interrupted  Stone.  "Write 
that  one  first." 

Woods  had  not  budged.  She  spoke  louder. 
"I  thought  it  a  good  story,  because,  you  see 


"Never  mind  what  you  think.  Sit  down 
and  write.  We'll  play  it  up  on  the  first  page," 
he  went  on,  drowning  her  out  as  she  kept 
trying  to  begin  again.  "Cunningham's  in 
the  public  eye.  Write  a  half-column.  Here's 
your  desk.  Here's  some  copy  paper.  Get 
busy.     No  time  to  talk." 

She  was  seated  now.  But  as  he  turned 
his  back,  she  quietly  arose  and  quickly 
made  for  the  gate. 

"Miss    Daros!"     Stone    had    turned   just 

[286] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


in  time.  She  slackened  her  pace.  "  Where're 
you  going  ?" 

"Home." 

"Why?" 

"  Write  my  stuff  there  and  send  it  down  by 
messenger." 

"Why?" 

"Headache.     Awful  air  at  the  opera." 

Stone  only  looked  at  her. 

"But  up  in  my  room  I  can  wrap  a  wet 
towel  around  my  head,  and " 

"Tommy,  get  a  towel  and  wet  it." 

"Oh,  no  —  they'd  all  laugh  at  me." 

"Tommy,  never  mind  the  towel." 

"  It'll  be  so  late  when  I  get  through,  and  — 
you  men  don't  realize  how  unpleasant  it  is 
for  a  girl " 

"Send  you  home  in  a  cab  at  our  ex- 
pense." 

Miss  Daros,  at  bay,  went  to  her  table  to 
write.  "Such  awful  air  at  the  opera," 
she    repeated,    very    loud.     Then,    as    Stone 

[287] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


went  on  up  the  room,  she  started  toward  the 
gate  again. 

"Where're  you  going  this  time  ?"  He  had 
turned  around  on  signal  from  Henderson. 

"Only  to  get  some  bromo-cafFeine,"  she 
said  calmly. 

"Tommy,  run  downstairs  and  get  some 
bromo-cafFeine  for  Miss  Daros."  The  city 
editor  handed  the  boy  some  money  and  went 
back  to  the  desk  at  last. 

Miss  Daros  meanwhile  deliberately  walked 
up  the  room  toward  Woods  again  until 
stopped  by  Stone's  glance,  like  a  question- 
mark  of  cold  steel.  "  Mr.  Woods  always  has 
some,"  she  said  calmly.  Stone  kept  on 
looking  at  her.  "But  the  boy  won't  know 
what  kind  I  want,"  she  replied. 

Stone,  without  taking  his  eyes  off  her, 
handed  another  boy  some  more  money.  "  Get 
all  the  kinds,"  he  said. 

"You  are  very  good,"  said  Miss  Daros, 
and  edged  away  toward  the  telephone,  but 

[288] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


seeing  it  occupied,  she  upset  a  chair,  which 
made  no  more  impression  on  Woods,  writing 
furiously,  than  the  distant  clanging  of  the 
cable-cars.  "So  awkward  of  me,"  she  said, 
laughing  louder  than  was  her  wont.  Hen- 
derson picked  up  the  chair  for  her,  and  con- 
gratulated himself  that  he  was  the  one  to 
have  suspected  her  in  the  first  place. 

Miss  Daros,  at  her  table,  wrote  with  head 
down.  The  boy  brought  the  caffeine.  She 
was  sulky  and  paid  no  attention  to  it.  Stone, 
passing  near,  said  to  her,  as  he  listened  at 
the  same  time  to  one  of  the  late  returning 
reporters:  "Don't  you  want  your  caffeine, 
Miss  Daros  ?"  She  flaunted  down  to  the 
water-cooler,  mixed  a  dose,  came  back  stirring 
it,  gulped  it  down,  and  then  choked  and 
coughed  violently.  Woods  kept  on  working 
obliviously.  Stone,  still  listening  to  Lee, 
looked  at  her.  She  resumed  writing.  It 
was  a  note  she  was  writing. 

Meanwhile  Lee  had  been  following  Stone 

[289] 


THE    DAY-DREAMER 


about  like  a  busy,  barking  dog.  "And  then 
I  asked  her,  'Won't  you  say  anything  about 
the  will  contest  at  all?'  and  she  said " 

*'How  about  her  divorce,  Lee?"  put  in 
Stone,  watching  Woods,  still  busily  writing, 
and  glancing  once  more  at  Miss  Daros,  who, 
as  soon  as  he  had  turned  his  back,  approached 
the  telephone  booth  again,  but  found  it 
occupied  by  some  one  else.  Once  more  she 
returned  reluctantly  to  her  desk;  then 
leaned  over  to  Henderson,  who  seemed 
assiduously  attentive  to  her  this  evening,  and 
began  laughing  heartily,  jarringly  loud. 
Every  one  looked  around  at  her  and  scowled. 

"I  can't  help  laughing  every  time  I  think 
of  it,"  she  said,  dipping  her  pen  again. 
"It  was  the  funniest  thing.  Mr.  Lascelles 
told  me  —  Harry  Lascelles  —  you  know 
Lascelles  of  the " 

"Tell  me  the  story.  Miss  Daros,"  said 
Stone,  hurrying  across  to  her,  followed  by 
Lee,  still  talking. 

[290] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


Miss  Daros  cowered  sulkily.  "You're 
so  sarcastic,  Mr.  Stone/'  she  said.  And, 
thinking  she  was  unobserved,  now  that  he 
had  turned  his  back  once  more,  she  was 
about  to  hand  a  note  to  a  passing  boy;  but 
again  Stone  stopped  her,  turning  suddenly. 
"Boys  all  too  busy  to-night  to  leave  this 
office  till  after  the  paper  goes  to  press." 

Stone  went  on  down  to  the  gate.  "Boys, 
come  here,"  he  said;  "all  you  boys."  They 
gathered  about  him.  Their  faces  were  awe- 
struck. It  was  so  horrifyingly  unusual  to  be 
recognized  by  Mr.  Stone,  except  as  he  recog- 
nized the  bell  he  punched  or  the  floor  he 
dropped  paper  upon.  "You're  all  to  be  dis- 
charged unless  we  beat  the  town  on  this 
story.     Go  on  talking,  Lee." 

Two  other  reporters  had  joined  Lee  by 
this  time,  so  that  there  was  quite  a  procession 
following  Stone's  many  moves  about  the 
room,  waiting  for  a  chance  to  tell  what  they 
had,  and  for  instructions  as  to  the  treatment 
[291  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


thereof.  Stone  had  returned  to  the  desk, 
followed  by  them. 

Miss  Daros,  unobserved,  started  the  dis- 
trict-messenger call  buzzing.  Stone  heard 
it  and  turned  too  late  to  catch  her  in  the  act. 
"That's  no  good,  Lee.  You  needn't  write 
anything."  So  Lee,  after  all  his  long, 
peripatetic  report,  retired  crestfallen.  To  the 
other  reporters  Stone  cried  desperately,  "Oh, 
talk  to  Haskill.  Haskill,  you  take  the  desk 
for  the  rest  of  this  night;  Woods  is  enough 
for  me." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him  now.?" 
whispered  Haskill.  For  Woods  showed 
symptoms  of  uneasiness. 

"Leave  him  to  me,"  returned  Stone,  who 
saw  that  Billy  had  run  out  of  copy  paper. 
And,  grabbing  a  handful,  he  carried  it  him- 
self to  Woods,  who  growled,  "Thanks, 
Tommy,"  without  lifting  his  head. 

Stone  hurried  back  to  Haskill.  "Room's 
too  full  of  people  all  thinking  about  the  same 
[292  ] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


thing  —  telepathize  him,  sure.  Send  *em 
out  on  assignments  —  To  see  if  Brooklyn 
Bridge  has  fallen  down.  To  see  how  high 
the  tide  rises  —  anything.  No  !  Don't  let 
'em  out !  What  are  you  thinking  about  ? 
All  excited  —  sure  to  talk  —  might  be  over- 
heard. Tell  Fatty  Smith  to  start  up  a  poker 
game  in  the  back  room.  Get  'em  out ! 
Get  'em  out !  Who  rang  for  this  messenger  .?" 
For  a  uniformed  boy  had  shuffled  in  shouting 
"Call!" 

"Our  mistake,"  said  Stone  to  the  boy, 
waving  him  out  with  a  glance  at  Miss  Daros, 
who  kept  on  writing  busily. 

Haskill  meanwhile  was  urging  the  men  to 
get  out  of  the  room.  But  it  was  hard  to 
make  them  stay  out.  One  of  the  editorial 
writers  who  had  not  yet  gone  home  poked 
his  head  in  from  one  of  the  farther  rooms. 
An  inky-armed  pressman  wandered  up  from 
the  basement.  Even  the  water-bugs  and 
cockroaches  were   scurrying   unusually. 

[  293  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


Stone  stepped  over  to  where  Woods  sat, 
tapping  with  his  fingers  on  the  desk,  as  if 
waiting  for  the  word.  As  the  editor  came 
near  the  writer  looked  up  and  smiled  amiably. 
It  was  a  gentle,  childlike  smile,  and  those 
watching  never  forgot  it.  Stone  looked 
straight  back  at  him  and  smiled  too.  It  was 
the  only  thing  to  do.  The  mere  lowering  of 
his  eyes  might  kill  the  most  remarkable  beat 
of  years. 

For  that  was  all  it  meant  to  them.  They 
were  not  in  a  position  to  see  the  mightier 
issues  at  stake.  Here  was  a  conflict  between 
civic  decency  and  the  slimy  powers  of  evil. 
The  outcome  spelled,  for  the  well-liked  com- 
rade before  them,  love  and  happiness  or 
else  ruin  and  disgrace  —  trembling  in  the 
balance,  while  he  sat  there  smiHng  in  his 
accustomed  place;  brought  back  by  what 
had  been  used  for  luring  him  away. 

But  even  though  they  could  not  see  all 
that,  the  whole  staff  held  its  breath  as  it  saw 
[294] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


Stone  open  his  mouth  to  speak  to  Woods. 
Its  heart  ceased  beating  as  it  heard  him  ask, 
"Much  more  of  this,  Billy?"  his  languid 
voice  sounding  strangely  normal. 

"Yes.  Lot  more."  Woods's  voice  sounded 
abnormally  normal  too.  "But  Fll  round  it 
all  up  in  time  —  if  you  just  let  me  alone," 
he  added  with  a  touch  of  petulance. 

"Hurry  it  along,"  said  Stone,  rather  kindly. 
And  then  he  had  the  audacity  to  hold  out 
his  hand. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Billy,  obediently,  and 
abstractedly  handing  the  editor  the  written 
sheets  of  copy  paper,  he  leaned  over  and 
plunged  into  his  work  again  while  the  staff 
thanked  heaven.  Those  who  had  arisen 
sank  into  their  seats  with  a  gasp  of  relief. 
One  man  was  seen  to  fan  himself.  Two 
others  went  out  into  the  hall,  where  they 
could  laugh  hysterically  together  over  Billy's 
"if  you  just  let  me  alone." 

When    Stone    reached    the    desk    Haskill 

[295] 


THE    DAY-DREAMER 


stared  at  him  admiringly.  "My,  you've 
got   nerve!" 

"Safe  as  a  man  v^ithout  a  memory  —  long 
as  we  can  keep  him  on  the  jump,"  said  Stone, 
reading  the  new  batch  of  copy.  But  the 
fingers  that  wielded  his  famous  pencil  were 
seen  to  tremble.  "Hasn't  forgotten  how  to 
write,"  he  said,  puffing  his  ugly  pipe  appre- 
ciatively. 

"Do  you  think  this  will  last  much  longer  V 
asked  Haskill.  "Can't  possibly  get  it 
all." 

"Got  to.     This  is  no  good  otherwise." 

"Why,  he  outHned  the  whole  story  in  the 
first  batch  !" 

"But  didn't  substantiate  a  word  of  it. 
This  doesn't,  either."  Stone's  manner  was 
ominously  quiet. 

"That's  so  !"  exclaimed  Haskill,  in  sudden 
alarm.  "He  says  here,  speaking  of  his  inter- 
view with  Lansing,  '  By  the  mere  omission  of 
a   comma,'   but   does  not  explain  where  or 

[296] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


how  —  whew  !  And  there  wouldn't  be  time 
for  us  to  look  up  the  legal  end  of  it  now." 

Stone  made  no  reply.  "Here,  boy,"  he 
growled,  and  the  new  instalment  was  de- 
spatched to  the  composing-room-. 

Typewriters  were  cHcking,  electric  fans  were 
buzzing,  the  copy-editors  were  reading,  and 
Billy  kept  on  writing  and  smoking  volumi- 
nously. There  was  one  of  those  silences 
that  sometimes  settle  down  on  the  noisiest 
newspaper  offices. 

Stone  was  scowHng.  "Got  to  'nihilate 
that  NihiHst,"  he  said  to  Haskill.  She  was 
seen  speaking  to  one  of  the  office  boys. 

"Send  her  home  in  a  cab  now  ?"  suggested 
the  assistant. 

"Give  any  one  the  slip." 

"Why  don't  you  call  her  up  here  and 
accuse  her  point  blank  ?" 

Stone  looked  sorry  for  his  subordinate. 
"Can't  you  see  ?"  he  said,  reHghting  his  pipe. 
"Only   make   her   desperate  —  could   easily 

[  297  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


wake  him  before  we  could  choke  her  off. 
Miss  Daros!"  he  called,  "youVe  written 
enough.     Short  of  space  to-night." 

"But  the  opera   story?" 

"Hang  the  opera  !     Bring  me  your  copy." 

The  woman  reporter  finished  the  sentence 
she  was  writing,  made  a  double  X-mark 
beneath  it,  to  show  the  compositors  that  no 
more  was  to  follow,  brought  her  copy  to  the 
desk,  slapped  it  down  in  front  of  Stone,  re- 
turned to  her  table,  picked  up  her  coat  and 
umbrella,  and  started  for  home.  Jones,  at 
the  gate,  barred  the  way,  looking  uncom- 
fortable but  determined. 

"The  idea!"  exclaimed  Miss  Daros.  "I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing."  She  turned  to 
Stone,  who  had  sauntered  down  after  her, 
puffing  his  pipe  vigorously.  "  Says  he's  under 
orders  from  you  not  to  let  me  go  home  until 
the  paper  goes  to  press." 

"That's  right." 

"I  won't  submit  to  it.     It's  outrageous." 

[  298  ] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


"Most  unpleasant,  as  you  were  saying, 
so  late  at  night.  Wait  till  we  go  to  press  and 
I'll  take  you   home." 

"  ril  call  for  a  messenger  to  take  me  home." 

Stone  shook  his  head. 

"I'll  telephone  for  a  cab  at  my  own 
expense." 

She  turned  to  the  telephone  eagerly.  They 
were  standing  near  the  booth. 

Stone  shook  his  head  again. 

"I  won't  be  kept  here  against  my  will. 
Mr.  Stone,  I  resign  right  here  and  now ! " 

"Accepted.  Take  effect  after  we  go  to 
press." 

"  My  room-mate  will  be  scared  to  death  — 
in  this  storm,  too !" 

"Where's  that  telephone  boy  ?  Someone 
come  here  and  call  up  Miss  Daros's  apart- 
ment-house and  notify  her  room-mate " 

"Never  mind;  Charlie's  busy  helping 
Dan,"  put  in  Miss  Daros.  "I  can  explain 
to    her    so    much     better."     She    had  been 

[299] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


bribing  Charlie  all  the  evening  for  such 
an  opportunity. 

She  was  stepping  into  the  telephone  booth 
at  last.  Yet  Stone  had  made  no  protest.  In- 
stead, he  waited  with  his  back  turned  until 
she  closed  the  sound-proof  door,  then 
wheeled  suddenly  around  to  the  switchboard 
just  outside  of  the  booth  and  fixed  the  plugs 
so  that  she  could  talk  to  no  one  outside  the 
building,  and  imitating  with  surprising  skill 
the  Central's  high,  feminine  voice,  he  squeaked 
into  the  transmitter,  "Number,  please?" 
and  repeated  her  answer  with  the  usual 
incoherent  haste.  Then,  covering  the  trans- 
mitter with  his  hand,  he  said  to  Haskill : 
"Thought  so.  Their  number.  Now,  Hen- 
derson, watch  Woods  closely.  Miss  Daros 
and  I  are  going  to  have  a  heart-to-heart  talk." 

A  number  of  the  staff  had  gathered  about. 
Haskill  ordered  them  away  frantically,  for 
fear  Miss  Daros  might  see  them  through  the 
glass  door  of  the  booth.      Stone,  meanwhile, 

[300] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


said,  again  imitating  Central's  voice,  "Go 
ahead." 

He    now    assumed    a    strange,    masculine 
tone.        "Hello!  .  .  .     Yes.  .  .  .        What? 

.  .  .     Oh,  you're  Miss .  .  .     No,  don't 

worry,  I  won't  speak  your  name.  .  .  .  Yes. 
.  .  .  But  this  is  the  city-room.  ...  No, 
Lascelles  is  not  in  his  office  just  now.  .  .  . 
Yes,  it  is  funny."  Stone  looked  up  to  wink 
at  Haskill,  and  went  on:  "You  don't  recog- 
nize my  voice .?  You've  heard  it  often 
enough.  .  .  .  Oh,  don't  be  so  mysterious. 
I  know  all  about  the  story.  .  .  .  Then 
what  can  I  say  to  make  you  believe  me  ^ 
Listen :  your  initials  are  K.  D.,  and  you  want 
to  talk  about  B.  W.  and  our  great  story.  .  .  . 
Well,  but  Mr.  Munson  is  out,  too.  .  .  .  Yep, 
both  out  looking  for  Billy  Woods.  .  .  . 
Hum .?  .  .  .  Well,  that  shows  I  know  about 
it,  anyway.  .  .  .  Yes,  they  had  to  tell 
jom^body.  ...  In  a  great  hurry,  eh  ? 
Well,     say    it,    then.    .    .    .      What's     that 

[301  ] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


about  a  horrid  brute  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  that 
devil  Stone,  eh  ?  What's  the  matter  with 
him  ?" 

Stone  put  his  hand  over  the  transmitter 
to  say,  "Henderson,  stop  grinning  Hke  an 
idiot,  and  w^atch  Woods ! "  then  assumed 
Central's  voice,  saying:  "Finished?"  and 
instantly  returned  to  the  disguised  male 
voice,  thundering,  "Can't  you  keep  out. 
Central !  No,  not  finished  !  Go  on,  Miss  D. 
.  .  .     Um-m!  .  .  .     Repeat    that    last." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  as  he  listened,  he 
waved  his  free  hand  in  the  air  with  amaze- 
ment and  delight.  "  Jake  Shayne  !  —  Oh, 
yes,  I  know.  .  .  .  How  soon  did  Mr.  Las- 
celles  say  the  gentlemen  were  expected  ?" 
Presently  Stone  raised  his  eyebrows.  Cover- 
ing the  transmitter,  but  still  holding  the  re- 
ceiver to  his  listening  ear,  he  reported  to  the 
silent  room:  "She  wants  my  advice  about 
waking  up  Billy.  .  .  .  Says  she  can't  do 
it  without  giving  herself  away.  .  .  .  Well ! 
[  302  ] 


f 
PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


she's  threatening  to  do  it  anyway  —  Scott, 
quick !  —  you  and  Covington  stand  by  the 
telephone  door  —  grab  her  the  minute  she 
comes  out !  Haskill,  Hne  up  some  of  those 
loafers  as  a  screen  between  Billy  and  the 
booth.  Now  then,  FU  scare  some  of  that 
yell  out  of  her!"  Into  the  transmitter  he 
shouted,  "My  advice  is,  keep  quiet  —  then 
you  won't  get  hurt ! "  adding  in  his  own 
famihar  voice,  "you're  talking  to  Mr.  Stone! 
Now,  boys,  quick!" 

Miss  Daros  burst  out  of  the  telephone 
booth,  crying,  "You're  a  traitor,  Mr.  Woo — " 
but  got  no  further.  Kicking  and  struggling, 
she  was  borne  off  to  Manning's  room  by 
Scott  and  Covington,  who  had  almost  failed 
at  their  job  because  they  hated  it  so. 

Woods  had  sprung  out  of  his  seat.  "What 
the  devil !"  he  cried.  "I  can't  write  with  all 
this  infernal  noise  going  on."  The  other 
men,  lined  up  as  a  shield  to  the  unpleasant 
performance,  hid  his  view  of  it. 

[303] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


Stone,  anticipating  trouble,  had  reached 
his  side.  "All  right,  Billy.  All  right. 
Woman  came  in  here  and  had  a  fit.  That's 
all  —  epileptic.     Poor  thing ! " 

"Well,  how  do  you  expect  me  to  write," 
returned  Woods,  petulantly,  "when  women 
come  in  here  and  have  fits  all  the  time.?" 

"Course  not.  Course  not.  Such  nerve! 
Coming  in  here  to  have  a  fit.  Ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  herself."  Stone  pushed  him 
back  into  his  chair.  "Old  man,  hurry  your 
story  along." 

But  Woods  still  felt  imposed  upon.  "  What 
do  they  take  this  place  for,  anyway?"  he 
demanded. 

"Took  it  for  a  hospital.  Look  at  the 
time,  Billy.  This  place  a  hospital !  Most 
absurd  !  You  haven't  run  in  that  quotation 
from  the  bill.  Look  at  the  clock !  I  tell 
you  the  whole  story  depends  on  that  quo- 
tation." 

"Going  to  save  that  until  the  last," 
[304] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


Woods  replied,  brightening  up  and  letting 
bygones  be  bygones.  "Thought  Td  run 
it  in  under  a  separate  head,  eh?" 

"All  right.     Hurry  along." 

Woods  bent  over  to  write  and  then  stopped, 
looking  at  Stone  with  a  sudden  gleam  in  his 
eye  that  set  the  whole  room  gasping  afresh. 
"Say!"  he  demanded.  "77/  tell  you  what 
rU  do,  when  I  get  to  it :  the  two  versions 
of  the  thing  in  parallel  columns  —  the 
deadly  parallel !  Eh  ?  —  always  effective." 
He  was  writing  again.  "More  artistic. 
Less  ostentatious,"  he  muttered,  half-aloud, 
wagging  his  head  with  a  self-complacency 
that  was  somehow  pathetic. 

Stone  was  still  bending  over  him.  "Much 
more  artistic,  Billy,"  he  said.  "Plug  ahead. 
Less  ostentatious,  too.  Keep  your  eye  on 
the  time."  But  Woods,  writing  like  mad 
once  more,  only  nodded  absently. 

"A  born  newspaper  man,"  remarked  the 
old  copy-reader,  in  a  low,  solemn  tone,  while 

[305] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


all  sighed  with  relief  and  Stone  mopped  his 
brow. 

But  there  was  no  rest  for  Stone.  "  Haskill, 
wake  up!"  he  cried.  "Publishing  a  news- 
paper in  this  office  —  nothing  more  heard 
from  that  fire  for  an  hour.  Send  a  boy  to 
find  Sampson  —  send  two  boys  so  they'll 
watch  each  other." 

Tommy  and  Dan  were  selected.  As  they 
went  out,  the  stout  managing  editor  came  in, 
dressed  in  evening  clothes,  looking  cool  and 
imperturbable.  He  had  attended  that  dinner 
to  the  prince,  the  toasts  of  which  had  been 
set  up  in  type  long  since. 

"Why,  here's  the  old  man,"  said  Haskill, 
in  surprise. 

"Thought  we  might  need  him,"  replied 
Stone,   who   made   a   dive   for  his   superior. 

"How's  it  coming  on  .?"  asked  Manning, 
smiling. 

The  city  editor  had  twice  summoned  him, 
but  Manning  was  obliged  to  stay  and  recite 

[306] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


one  of  those  already  set-up  speeches.  "  Mr. 
Manning,  in  five  minutes  Shayne  and  Nord- 
heimer  are  due  to  meet  that  man  Lascelles  — 
in  a  private  room !  —  to  take  a  look  at 
Woods's  story." 

The  stout  managing  editor  showed  no 
astonishment,  for  the  reason  that  nothing 
ever  astonished  him,  but  he  flicked  ashes 
from  his  perfecto  and  asked,  "How  do  you 
know  they  are  ?" 

"Telephone." 

"  By  telephone  .^  "    He  was  almost  astonished. 

"Oh,  never  mind  —  but  don't  you  see 
what  that  means?" 

"It  looks  like " 

"Looks  like  what  it  is,  3.  big  black- 
mailing job." 

Manning  looked  at  the  absorbed  writer 
and  smiled.  "Say,  Stone,  perhaps  I'd  better 
hide  in  the  closet.  Woods  might  look  up 
and  wonder  at  my  dress  suit." 

But  instead,  he  threw  off  both  his  coat  and 

[307] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


waistcoat  and  plunged  into  the  thick  of  the 
fight,  as  he  had  often  done  before  on  a 
moment's  notice.  "Hello,  what's  this?" 
he  asked.  The  two  office  boys,  hurriedly 
returning  already,  marched  through  the  gate 
with  an  air  of  tremendous  gravity,  breaking 
boyishly  into  a  run  on  the  way  toward 
Stone. 

"  I  found  dis  on  de  sidewalk,"  began  Dan, 
in  a  whisper. 

"Naw,  I  found  it,"  interrupted  Tommy, 
snatching  an  envelope  out  of  Dan's  hand. 

"Fluttered  down  from  some  place  upstairs." 

"Hit  Dan  on  de  head." 

"Right  here." 

"No,  right  dere." 

While  they  were  fighting  it  out.  Stone 
read  the  address  aloud:  "Five  dollars  will 
be  given  to  the  person  delivering  this  into  the 
hands  of  H.  A.  Lascelles,  city  office  of " 

"On  our  office  envelope,"  interrupted 
Manning. 

[308] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


"Haskill,  watch  Woods,"  groaned  Stone, 
running  in  the  direction  of  Manning's  office, 
where  Miss  Daros  was  incarcerated. 

"Boys,"  said  Manning,  patting  their  proud 
heads,  "you'll  each  get  five  dollars  for  not 
doing  it." 

Since  it  was  a  letter  from  his  own  private 
office,  he  took  the  Hberty  of  opening  it.  The 
note  was  brief:  — 

"  W.  is  turning  in  the  story  here.    No  time  to  lose." 

There  was  no  signature.  The  recipient 
was  supposed  to  recognize  the  chirography, 
and,  as   it   happened,   did. 

Haskill  was  explaining  the  Daros  incident. 
The  two  boys,  meanwhile,  were  exchanging 
looks,  as  if  uncertain  whether  to  rejoice  at 
the  prospect  of  reward,  or  to  feel  insulted, 
professionally. 

"You  don't  tink  we'd  go  back  on  de 
poiper!"  Tommy  exclaimed,  self-righteously. 

"Dere  ain't  money  enough  in  Noo  Yoik," 
chimed  in  Dan. 

[  309  ] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


But  their  esprit  de  corps  was  unheeded, 
for  Woods  had  ceased  writing.  He  was 
staring  straight  ahead  of  him,  rubbing  his 
cheek,  his  nose,  alternating  now  and  then 
with  his  hair. 

He  looked  as  completely  conscious  as  any 
of  them.  At  this  rate,  in  any  case,  he  soon 
would  be,  they  all  thought,  fairly  dancing  in 
silent  consternation.  Henderson  had  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  some  of  the  more  nervous 
men  back,  though  what  they  proposed  to  do, 
if  he  hadn't,  they  themselves  probably  did 
not  know.  Stone  was  needed.  Haskill  flew 
toward  Manning's  room.  His  voice  was 
heard  calHng  through  the  passage:  "Stone, 
Stone,  where  are  you  .?" 

"Here.     Stop    your    racket " 

"Something  the  matter  with  Billy,"  Has- 
kill  whispered.     "Come    quick!" 

"Wait  till  I  lock  this  door,  can't 
you!" 

They  came  back  together,  Haskill  drag- 
[310] 


PARK   ROW   AGAIN 


ging  Stone  by  the  arm,  as  if  he  were  a  surgeon 
for  an  emergency  case. 

"Huh!"  diagnosed  the  specialist,  who 
straightway  snatched  a  box  of  cigarettes  out 
of  some  one's  surprised  hand  and  tossed 
them  upon  Woods's  desk,  beckoning  Has- 
kill  to  strike  a  light  for  him  as  he  did  so. 

Woods  inhaled  a  great  lungful,  breathed 
it  forth  thoughtfully,  then  bent  over  his 
desk  again.  "Ah,  I  have  it,"  he  said  in  an 
undertone,  and  this  time  some  of  his  relaxing 
colleagues  merely  closed  their  eyes,  as  if  in 
need  of  rest. 

Stone  now  had  a  chance  to  tell  about  Miss 
Daros.  "Throwing  another  letter  out  of 
the  window  when  I  tiptoed  in.  Only  three 
sheets  of  paper  left  on  your  desk,  Mr.  Man- 
ning. Some  of  'em  must  have  got  there  by 
this  time  and " 

"W.  P.  Woods  .?"  asked  a  strange  boy  who 
had  penetrated  as  far  as  the  gate,  exhibiting 
a  letter.     "Immediate,"  he  added,  pronounc- 

[311] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


ing  the  word  with  a  correctness  that  suggested 
recent  coaching. 

"Where's  this  from?"  asked  Stone,  down 
by  the  gate  by  this  time. 

"Party  told  me  not  to  say." 

"Leave  it  here  till  Mr.  Woods  calls  for  it." 

"Party  told  me  I  mustn't." 

"Scat!" 

The  boy  ran.  Jones  kicked  at  him. 
Manning  raised  his  imperturbable  eyebrows. 

"Yes,  Lascelles  has  discovered  his  where- 
abouts somehow,"  said  the  latter,  "so  it 
looks  as  if  the  real  fun  were  only  just  be- 
ginning." 

"Hasn't  run  in  his  deadly  parallel  yet," 
remarked   Haskill,   in   a  whisper. 

"The  whole  story  hangs  on  that,"  said 
Manning,   shifting   his   cigar. 

"Let   him    alone,"    growled    Stone. 

"How  much  longer  can  they  hold  open 
that  form?"  asked  Haskill.  They  were  all 
looking  at  the  clock. 

[312] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


"Everything  else  is  ready  for  casting," 
said  Stone.  He  was  near  the  open  window, 
and  suddenly  pointed  to  the  street.  "Notice 
that  devil-wagon  whiz  by?" 

"A   Mercedes,"   nodded   Manning. 

"Townsend,  with  Cunningham  and  his 
daughter,  breaking  the  speed  limit,"  said 
Stone. 

"They  must  have  checked  ofF  most  of  our 
'esteemed  contemporaries'  by  this  time,"  re- 
marked Manning.  "  By  the  way,"  he  added, 
smiling,  "I  telephoned  Berwin  to  wake  up 
the  governor  a  few  minutes  ago.  While  about 
it  I  cabled  the  whole  situation  to  the  chief — 
thought  it  might  amuse  him." 

"Catch  him  at  dejeuner  by  Paris  time," 
said  Stone. 

The  city  editor  was  about  to  add  some- 
thing else  when  he,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
office,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Manning, 
were  lifted  into  the  air  by  the  loud  report  of 
a  revolver  shot  in  the  hallway,  which  filled 

[313] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


their  ears  with  the  ominous  reverberation 
always  caused  by  firearms  discharged  indoors. 

Woods  was  out  of  his  seat.  Stone  was 
at  his  side.  Scott  and  Covington  rushed 
out  into  the  hall.  Others  went  after  them. 
Manning  remarked,  "They  seem  to  want 
that   story  pretty  bad." 

"All  right,  old  man,"  Stone  was  saying 
as  he  patted  Billy  on  the  back.  The  man 
trembled  like  a  high-spirited  thoroughbred. 
"Nothing  but  a  suicide  —  one  of  the  press- 
men —  persecuted  by  the  foreman.  You'd 
better  lead  up  to  your  deadly  parallel  now. 
Getting  late."  He  pointed  at  the  clock, 
and  Woods,  again  resembling  a  thorough- 
bred, responded  to  the  lash. 

Covington  and  Scott  came  back,  dragging 
in  an  Italian  organ-grinder  and  organ. 
"Can't  make  him  tell  who  put  him  up  to 
it,"  Scott  whispered  to  the  city  editor. 

"Lock  him  up  some  place  till  we  go  to 
press,"  directed  Manning. 

[314] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


Stone  turned  to  Sampson,  just  back  from 
the  tenement  fire,  now  under  better  control 
than  Stone's  temper.  "Don't  write  any 
more,"  he  snapped  out  before  Sampson 
could  open  his  mouth,  or  even  the  gate. 
The  main  story,  sent  in  by  telephone,  was 
already  set  up. 

"Lascelles  and  Munson,"  said  Sampson, 
with  a  jerk  of  the  head  —  "  disappearing 
around  the  corner  as  I  came  along." 

"Oh,  they'll  come  back,"  said  Manning, 
chuckling. 

Stone  sought  Billy.  "How's  the  parallel 
coming .?" 

The  writer  made  a  gesture  which  meant, 
"Don't  bother  me!" 

Stone  obeyed. 

"Only  a  few  minutes  longer,"  Haskill 
kept  repeating  to  everybody,  with  a  forced 
smile.  No  one  paid  any  attention  to 
him. 

Tommy's    shrill    treble    came    in    through 

[315] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


the  hall  door.  Every  one  listened.  "There 
ain't  nobody  go'n'ter  see  him  till  he's  trew 
writin',  I  tell  you." 

"Here  they  come!"  thrilled  Haskill. 

"Lascelles's  voice  ail  right,"  said  Hender- 
son. 

"Come  on,  fellov^s,"  urged  Covington. 
With  several  others  he  v^as  for  rushing  out 
and    howling  the  enemy  down  the  stairs. 

Stone  restrained  them.  "Only  make  'em 
desperate  —  yell  in  to  Billy  —  spoil  the  whole 
thing." 

"We  haven't  landed  the  story  yet,  by 
any  means,"  Manning  added,  smoking  faster. 

It  was  now  unmistakably  Lascelles's  voice, 
and  it  sounded  as  if  he  were  tiring  of  argu- 
ment.    "Then   I'll  tell  him  myself." 

"Tell  nothin',"  Tommy  shrilled  back 
defiantly,  "not  till  he's  trew  writin',  I 
said." 

"For  God's  sake,  try  to  keep  your  heads, 
like  Tommy ! "  besought  Stone  of  the  excited 

[316] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


ones.  "We'll  land  this  thing  yet,  I  tell  you." 
He,  too,  was  feeling  the  strain,  but  he  did 
not  show  it.  As  he  spoke,  he  disrespectfully 
backed  Manning,  his  superior,  up  the  room, 
almost  to  Woods's  chair,  sprang  up  on  a  desk, 
turned  the  hands  of  the  clock  ten  minutes 
ahead,  and  jumped  down  again.  "Now  you 
can  move,  Mr.  Manning,"  he  said,  and  ran 
to  Billy.  "Heaven's  sake,  man,  haven't 
you  finished  yet  .f*     Look  at  the  time!" 

Woods  looked  at  the  clock,  gasped  in 
astonishment,  and    spurted    for    the    finish. 

With  the  sounds  of  a  scuffle  at  the  door, 
Tommy,  still  struggling,  was  suddenly  pushed 
in,  tumbled  over,  and  there  stood  Lascelles 
and  Munson. 

They  stopped  short  before  reaching  the 
gate,  however.  For,  just  inside  of  it,  they 
beheld  nearly  the  whole  staff  lined  up  in 
close  rank.  It  was  merely  another  human 
screen  which  had  been  marshalled  by  Man- 
ning, who  stood  at  the  back  of  it,  whispering, 

[317] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


"Keep  cool.     Play  for  time."     Three  more 
seconds   had   already   heen   gained. 

During  this  period  of  time,  Stone,  grab- 
bing another  page  of  Billy's  copy  before  he 
had  reached  the  bottom  of  it,  ran  over  to  the 
copy-slide,  and  said,  "Rush!"  through  the 
speaking-tube;  "the  rest  as  fast  as  he 
writes  it." 

Manning,  in  an  unimpassioned  tone,  was 
asking  in  his  dignified  manner,  "What  does 
that  excited  person  want  here  .f^" 

"Our  story!"  shouted  Lascelles.  He 
looked  right  and  left  for  Woods,  but  could 
not  see  him. 

"All  right,"  replied  Stone,  approaching 
with  a  proof.     "Here  you  are!" 

What  Lascelles  saw  on  that  proof  stopped 
him,  thunderstruck. 

More  valuable  seconds. 

Stone  had  already  run  back  to  Billy,  whis- 
pered, "Wind  it  up  quick  !"  grabbed  another 
sheet,  and  rushed  to  the  slide  again. 
[3"8] 


PARK   ROW   AGAIN 


Lascelles  was  now  waving  the  proof. 
"Our  story,"  he  cried.  "YouVe  stolen  our 
story!" 

"Yep,"  said  Haskill,  Hghting  a  cigar,  and 
addressing  nobody  in  particular;  "long  as 
they  didn't  care  to  print  it  —  thought  we 
would."  Jeering  laughter  followed,  which 
took  time. 

Lascelles  was  at  bay  now.  "Nordheimer! 
Shayne  !  Quick  !  He's  in  here  —  they  won't 
let  me  see  him." 

The  notorious  two  now  bolted  in. 

Lascelles  had  observed  Stone's  movements, 
and  now  jumping  up  in  the  air  to  see  over 
the  heads  of  those  before  him,  he  discovered 
Woods.  "There  he  is!  We've  got  him!" 
And  he  sprang  up  on  a  chair,  calHng: 
"Woods!     Oh,    Woods!     Come   here!" 

"That  will   do!"   thundered   Manning. 

Lascelles  shouted  again  and  awaited  an 
answer. 

Woods,  still  writing,  nodded.  "Wait  a 
[319] 


THE   DAY-DREAMER 


second,    can't    you!"     He     seemed     to     be 
irritated  —  not  to  say,  provoked. 

"Make  a  noise,"  growled  Manning,  for 
most  of  them  were  listening  stupidly. 

In  the  hubbub  which  followed,  no  one's 
words  could  be  distinguished  for  a  moment. 
But  Stone  could  be  seen  patting  Woods  on 
the  back  with  one  hand ;  with  the  other 
pointing  to  the  clock.  Now  he  secured  one 
more  sheet  of  copy,  and  shot  across  the  room 
with  it.  Lascelles  saw  this  and  became 
desperate.  He  made  a  dash  at  the  gate. 
Scott  crashed  it  shut  in  his  face.  Lascelles 
began  screaming  for  Woods.  There  was 
shouting,  expostulation,  confusion.  Through 
and  above  it  all  now  arose  the  wheezy  notes 
of  the  hand-organ,  playing,  "A  Hot  Time 
in  the  Old  Town  To-night"  —  Covington's 
inspiration.     Woods  kept  on  writing. 

Shayne    was  waving    his    hands  wildly  to 
gain   a  hearing.     "Gentlemen,  this  is  all  a 
mistake,   a  misunderstanding!" 
[320] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


Manning  bent  over  to  listen.  "All  about 
the  mistake,"  he  put  in,  whisking  the  proof 
out  of  Lascelles's  hands.  Shayne  stopped, 
as  if  fascinated  by  what  he  saw.  To  him 
it  spelled  Sing  Sing. 

Nordheimer  was  also  shouting,  it  appeared : 
"If  you  dare  print  that " 

"Look  it  over!"  Nordheimer  now  found 
the  proof  in  his  hands.     He  collapsed. 

There  came  a  sudden  silence.  Woods 
had  finished  his  day's  work,  and  was  striding 
down  to  see  what  all  the  confounded  row 
was  about,  looking  as  though  he  considered 
it  a  disgrace  to  the  office. 

All  turned  and  gazed  at  him,  as  he  came 
toward  them  with  hands  in  his  pockets,  his 
brows  knit,  his  eyes  wondering. 

The  silence  was  so  intense  that  Stone's 
jubilant  voice  was  heard  speaking  through 
the  tube:  "Yes,  that  winds  it  up,  thank 
God!  Jam  it  through!"  and  this  touched 
off  Lascelles. 

[321  ] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


His  voice  was  shrill  as  an  animars  in 
a  trap :  "  Billy  Woods !  You  damned 
sneak !  What  have  you  done  with  our 
story!" 

Woods  stopped  abruptly.  His  hands  re- 
mained in  his  pockets. 

It  is  said  that  certain  of  the  men  turned  their 
eyes  away.  But  what  was  especially  incon- 
siderate in  those  who  stared,  fascinated,  was 
that  not  one  of  them  said  a  word  to  him  as 
the  thing  flickered  across  his  horror-stricken 
face  in  quick  flashes  of  intelligence.  It  was 
all  over  in  a  moment.  He  grasped  the  whole 
situation  and  sank  down  exhausted,  at  the 
nearest  desk.  Manning  put  an  arm  about 
him  like  a  father. 

Lascelles  slapped  the  gate  post.  "We'll 
expose  this  whole  trick  to-morrow ! "  he 
shrieked. 

Stone  appeared  leading  Miss  Daros. 
"Which  trick?"  he  asked.  Lascelles  wilted, 
silent  at  last. 

[322] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


"A  put-up  job  —  the  whole  thing!"  cried 
Shayne  to  everybody. 

"Tell  Cunningham  so,"  smiled  Stone, 
whose  quick  ears  had  detected  approaching 
footsteps. 

Townsend  burst  in,  followed  by  the  general 
and  Frances,  all  of  them  out  of  breath. 

Gilbert,  with  finger  pointing  at  Woods, 
cried  to  Frances,  "What  did  I  tell  you!" 
then  called  upon  Manning,  "What's  that 
man  doing  in  your  office?" 

"Here's  the  answer."  Once  more  the 
limp  proof  played  its  part.  Frances  snatched 
it  eagerly.     All  three  bent  over  it. 

"Father!  Father!"  cried  the  girl,  point- 
ing, "'Thanks  to  General  Cunningham's 
shrewdness  — '  Oh!"  She  let  him  have 
the  printed  words;  she  turned  to  the  author 
of  them,  who  had  arisen  to  meet  her. 

At  that  moment  the  gong  rang,  the  floor 
began  to  shake,  and  there  came  up  from 
far  below,  the  deep,  heavy  rumbling  of  the 

[323] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


mighty  presses  which  would  soon  spread 
the  news  all  over  the  civilized  world. 

And  now  all  the  room  was  in  sudden, 
jubilant  commotion,  everybody  trying  to 
explain  to  everybody  else,  all  trying  to  shake 
Billy's  hand  at  the  same  time,  the  office 
boys  cheering,  dancing,  whistling,  throwing 
hats  and  coats  in  the  air. 

The  rest  happened  quickly.  Even  before 
Lascelles  and  his  crumpled  crew  had  reached 
the  street,  to  the  tune  of  Covington's  hand- 
organ  following  them  out  into  the  hall,  a  boy 
had  burst  out  of  the  telephone  booth,  butted 
his  way  through  the  dancing,  shouting  re- 
porters to  Mr.  Manning's  side.  The  fat 
managing  editor,  red  and  perspiring,  bent 
over  while  the  boy  shouted  in  his  ear,  then 
straightened  up  quickly,  shouting  above 
the  tumult,  "General,  your  bill  is  vetoed!" 

Then,  amid  more  excitement  and  more 
shouting,  with  the  general  grasping  Woods's 
hand,  Billy  trying  to  rise,  the  secretary  re- 
[324] 


PARK  ROW  AGAIN 


straining  him,  Frances  fanning  him,  Gilbert 
looking  on  from  the  doorway,  another  boy 
came  running  to  Mr.  Manning.  The  manag- 
ing editor  was  seen  to  mount  a  desk. 

He  waved  a  cablegram  in  his  hand: 
"'Reappoint  Woods  to  London.'  Boys, 
three  cheers  for  Billy  and  the  general!" 

The  tidal  wave  of  jubilance  swept  the 
sombre  old  room  of  most  of  its  occupants. 
The  hand-organ  was  dying  away  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

Gilbert,  standing  by  the  gate,  was  holding 
it  open  for  Frances  and  her  father  to  pass 
out.  At  last  he  caught  her  eye.  She  shook 
her  head  and  remained  beside  the  reporter. 
Gilbert,  watching  intently,  understood.  He 
hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  paralyzed  by  the 
conflict  within.  Then  he  drew  near,  rather 
shyly,  took  his  cousin's  hand,  shook  it 
heartily,  and  quickly  left  the  room. 

The  general  turned  to  Billy.  "  If  you  feel 
quite  recovered,"  he  began  solicitously,  and 

[325] 


THE  DAY-DREAMER 


started  on  ahead.  Woods  arose  slowly,  as 
if  adjusting  himself  to  reality.  He  looked 
at  the  slender  girl  beside  him.  It  was  the 
dingy,  deserted  old  newspaper  office.  He 
and  she  were  alone  in  it. 

"Gilbert  is  not  coming  on  the  Cedric,* 
said  the  girl.     "Will  you  join  us  ?" 

"Of  course  this  is  all  a  dream,"  he  whis- 
pered, gazing  at  her  across  the  desk  that 
stood  between  them.  "How  long  do  you 
think  it  will  last?" 

"How  long  do  you  want  it  to  last?"  she 
asked. 

He  leaned  closer,  trembling.  Before  the 
eager  longing  of  his  tired  eyes,  her  eyes 
fluttered    and    fell. 

It  had  all  come  true,  at  last. 


[326] 


BOOKS  BY  JESSE  LYNCH  WILLIAMS 

Published  by  CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

The  Stolen  Story 

and  Other  Newspaper  Stories 

Illustrated.     i2mo,  $1.25 

"  He  has  certainly  earned  a  right  to  rank 
with  our  best  short-story  writers." 

— Review  of  Reviews. 

"  The  boundless  romance  of  newspaper  life 
has  seldom  found  a  more  sympathetic  or  skilful 
interpreter." — ne  Churchman. 

"The  best  newspaper  stories  ever  written." 

— The  Interior. 

"  The  author's  portrait  studies  represent  the 
real  thing." — Brooklyn  Life, 

"  Have  not  only  taken  the  newspaper  world 
by  storm,  but  the  reading  world  in  general  is  turn- 
ing to  bestow  more  than  a  second  glance  at  the 
work  of  this  brilliant  writer." — Boston  Courier. 


BY   JESSE    LYNCH    WILLIAMS 

PRINCETON  STORIES 

i2mo,  $i.oo 

"  Besides  being  well  constructed  and  well  told, 
they  breathe  a  spirit  of  commendable  vigor  and  man- 
liness. They  naturally  possess  the  interest  inci- 
dent to  the  sketches  of  picturesque  student  life, 
but  aside  from  this  they  betray  an  unusual  aptitude 
for  story-telling.  .  ,  ,  Princeton  men  are  fortunate 
in  having  the  life  of  their  college  so  favorably  pre- 
sented to  the  outside  world.'* 

— 'T'he  Atlantic  Monthly. 

"  We  recognize  that  the  spirit  which  animated 
the  heroes  of  these  stories  is  the  same  which 
every  freshman  of  a  week's  standing  begins  to 
feel  to  day." — Nassau  Literary  Magazine. 

"  Mr.  Williams  has  given  one  of  the  truest  and 
most  attractive  pictures  of  the  recreative  side  of 
American  college  life  that  has  yet  been  written." 

— T^he  Advance. 

"  True  to  life,  as  well  as  spirited." 

— Cincinnati  Tribune. 


BY  JESSE  LYNCH   WILLIAMS 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF 
A   FRESHMAN 

Illustrated  by  FLETCHER  C.  RANSOM 
i2mo,  $1.25 

"A  most  delightful  story  of  first  experiences 
in  college,  which  every  boy  will  relish  keenly." 

— The  Interior, 

"  The  author  has  told  a  spirited  story  and  in- 
cidentally let  fall  some  excellent  hints  for  lighten- 
ing the  freshman's  burden,  and  presented  in  strong 
light  and  shade  the  things  that  make  or  mar  a 
college  career." — Public  Opinion, 

"  Mr.  Williams  tells  the  story  of  his  hero 
crisply,  directly,  and  with  great  spirit." 

— Brooklyn  'Times, 

"  Hazing,  the  ups  and  down  of  athletics,  man- 
liness and  boyishness  happily  blended,  escapades 
and  adventures,  all  tending  to  the  building  up  of 
a  typical  American  character,  brim  the  book  with 
genuine  life.  Mr.  Williams  has  a  fresh  and  bright 
genius  which  must  captivate  every  reader." 

— The  Independent, 

"  No  boy  or  youth  can  read  it  without  being 
the  better  for  its  strong,  clean,  moral  tone." 

— Chicago  Inter-Ocean, 


BY  JESSE  LYNCH   WILLIAMS 

New  York  Sketches 

Illustrated.     $2.00  net 

"Mr.  Williams  has  remarkable  powers  of  ob- 
servation. He  sees  everything  that  comes  within 
the  range  of  his  eyes  as  he  rambles  along  the  New 
York  water  front  on  both  rivers  from  the  Battery 
to  Harlem,  and  furthermore,  he  sees  it  in  propor- 
tion, and  notes  its  contrasts  with  other  things  on 
the  way." — Boston  Herald, 

"  Mr.  Williams  is  a  delightful  guide,  for  he  has 
an  unerring  eye  for  the  picturesque  and  the  curious, 
and  he  finds  both  in  all  sorts  of  odd  nooks  and 
corners  of  even  crowded,  noisy,  hurrying,  prosaic 
New  York.'* — 'The  Christian  Advocate, 

"  It  is  not  associations,  literary  or  historical, 
that  interest  Mr.  Williams,  but  the  pulsing  hu- 
manity and  fascinating  variety  of  the  great  city 
as  it  stands  to-day." — 'The  Dial. 

"  Mr.  Williams  has  an  agreeable  manner  of 
opening  the  eyes  of  the  old  New  Yorker  to  the 
wonders  of  his  own  city." — The  Outlook, 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


t7Jan'56HE 

iMil  8 195610 

mStW* 

MAR  4     1977 

V- 

LD  21-100m-2,'55 
(B139s22)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


